Mistaken
by SpidEMcD
Summary: House attends a special Thanksgiving Dinner with his mother and aunt and falls for a the daughter of a family friend.  Written for NaNoWriMo 2010 and the House O/C Babes Challenge:  House gets an invite to Thanksgiving Dinner.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Greg House wriggled his key into the mailbox lock in the foyer of 221 Baker Street. He pulled out a rolled up magazine and several letters before slamming the little metal door shut and turning the key. It was always easier to close the door and lock it with the mail falling out of his hands than it was to get the damn key in the lock and jiggle it open. That was the first reason he hated retrieving the mail. The second was juggling the pieces, an uncooperative backpack, a cane and maneuvering his apartment key into the door lock. On days like this he let it all fall over the threshold once the door swung open.

"Crap," he muttered, not really wanting to stoop down to clean things up.

A particular piece of mail caught his attention. It was in a card sized envelope, easily standing out with the number ten sized envelopes containing bills and junk mail.

"What do we have here?" He picked it up and turned it over to find a return address on the back flap. "Love note from Mom."

Greg absently closed the door, allowing a few pieces of what appeared to be junk mail waft out on the opposing air current, only to be left behind in the foyer. He limped over to the sofa, examining the envelope as he did so. A piece of mail from Blythe House was not to be taken lightly. He was suspicious of the neatly engineered package's contents. He felt like Harry Potter about to open a howler from the Ministry of Magic. Better to be prepared first. Think about what he potentially did to deserve his mother's attention. He meticulously centered the piece of post on the coffee table and stared at it.

Failing to acquire x-ray vision to reveal the unopened envelope's contents, Greg got up to put his things away before getting too comfortable. In front of the door he picked up his cane and backpack, slinging the latter on an empty peg of the coat rack. Greg took off his jacket, hanging it as well. He walked down the hallways towards the bedroom, leaving the rest of the mail where it lay.

A quick detour to the bathroom allowed him to relieve himself first. While washing his hands, Greg took a long look in the mirror. He appeared to have aged twice as fast in the past two years. Lines were deepening, hair was greyer, and the lack of sleep evident with the baggage under his eyes. _Fifty-three years old and still leery about opening a letter from Mom._

"Pathetic," he chided his mirror image.

In the bedroom he tossed his cane on the bed and gimp-stripped across the room. The pants were a bit of a struggle to step out of, but he wasted no time peeling the button down shirt over his head and wadding it into a ball to be tossed in the general direction of the laundry basket. Greg bent down to rid himself of the jeans, which were then tossed over a chair.

He half skipped, half hobbled over to the bed in order to grab his lounging pants and get them on before reaching once again for his trusty cane. Greg needed only two more things before he'd be ready to real the mail.

A bottle of Maker's Mark and a highball glass in hand, he headed back to the living room and the comforts of the sofa.

The closer he got to his destination, the weaker his right leg felt. "It's just a damn letter," he chastised himself aloud. "Suck it up."

Greg almost let himself drop onto the sofa after placing the bottle and glass down. Previous experience told him not to. It always seemed like a good plan, that few seconds of free-fall weightlessness. Yet every time it ended in the same way: an ass jarring thud that made his thigh ache more than necessary. He had to face it; he was getting old.

So Greg eased himself into a sitting position, a strange guttural sound escaping his throat as if he were an insanely old man prone to being decrepit. His ability to pour himself a double, however, was not marred by age or infirmity. Holding the drink in one hand, the envelope in the other, he contemplated which to tend to first.

"The drink, definitely the drink," he declaimed to no one in particular, downing the drink in one gulp.

The letter, on the other hand, he worked at slowly. Greg was able to slip a part of his finger under the corner of the seal and pry it open. No white powder puffed out. Not that dear old mom would send him anthrax, but she did have a penchant for getting perfumes and talc on her stationery from time to time. Thank god he didn't suffer from asthma.

He tapped out the card just enough to be able to pull it out without risking a paper cut. It appeared to be an invitation. At least that's what the first word alluded to. He looked at the back of the envelope to make sure he had the return address right. Then he looked at the stamp to make sure it wasn't one of those "LOVE" themed ones used for-

"No way!" Greg took a closer look at the card. "Whew, not a wedding invitation." That little scare deserved another double. He wouldn't put it passed his mother to remarry without so much as a word that she'd been dating. Thankfully that was not the situation.

His real attempt at deciphering this piece of post revealed that indeed it was an invitation to something. He perused the information, which was not in his mother's handwriting, and was able to discern that it was for Thanksgiving Dinner.

Greg poured another drink as he read the address: 2171 Ridgemont Drive, Los Angeles, California.

"California!" Why in the hell did his mother send him an invite to Thanksgiving dinner in California? He dropped the card and picked up the envelope to see if there was anything else in there. Of course there was. He could smell Escada a little stronger as he pulled out a bit of stationery.

'Greg, we have been invited to Thanksgiving Dinner to be with your Aunt Sarah and friends in Los Angeles. Please call me to discuss when you get this. And don't make up your mind yet. There are extenuating circumstances. Love always, Mom.'

Greg sighed heavily, pouring himself another drink. In this state he was too tired and too buzzed to have a decent conversation with dear old mom. It would have to wait until tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

The next morning brought an interesting case to the Diagnostics Department. A patient presented to the ER in the middle of the night with respiratory distress, edema of the extremities and itchy skin. Classic symptoms of an allergic reaction. He was given corticosteroids and topical antihistamines. In the short period of time it would have taken for the drugs to take effect, the patient's symptoms worsened.

Respiratory distress progressed to pulmonary edema. The fluid around his lungs constricted the heart from pumping. Congestive heart failure and ultimately cardiac arrest followed. After several attempts at defibrillation, the patient's heart resumed beating, albeit arrhythmically. Intravenous Lasix helped removed the fluids in the chest cavity, but the cause was still a mystery. By the time House and the Team were referred the case, the patient was on a ventilator and now the kidneys were shutting down.

House stood at the whiteboard staring at the list of symptoms. If Cameron was still around, she would have instantly argued for auto-immune disease . He partially concurred. The progression of systemic failures fit. However, there was no exacerbating incident to throw the patient's immune system into hyper-drive.

"What's making this guy allergic to himself," he tossed out to doctors Chase, Foreman and Taub.

"Some sort of auto-immune-"

"Wow, I am so glad I hired you, Chase. There was no way I'd have come up with that on my own." House was scowling, hoping the rest of his team had something better to say.

"Could be Weirnecke's, Von Willibrand-" Taub didn't get a chance to finish before House cut him down.

"Great, a Jewish myna bird. Do I have to do all the thinking myself?"

"Could be a clotting issue, infection, parasites. We don't have enough information," Foreman said perusing the file.

"The ER hasn't been the same since Cameron left. Taub, get a better patient history. See if anyone he knows has a clue what this guy is allergic to. Chase, get an angio of the heart, lungs and kidneys. If this is a blockage issue maybe we can bust it with TPH. Foreman, rerun the CBC, do an ANA and get a biopsy of all affected organs. Test them for granulomas, Sarcoidosis, Lupus and any parasites or prions we haven't thought of yet.

"After you do all that and find out it's none of the above, do a scratch test. Check for allergies to corn, wheat, milk, strawberries, pineapple, coconut, latex, KY Jelly, Non-oxinyl 9 and all the other sperm killing substances."

House looked at his fellows wondering why none of them had jumped up to carry out his orders. They were looking at him quizzically.

"Nobody wakes up in the middle of the night with an unknown allergy attack unless they've had a midnight snack."

"Why don't we just do the scratch test first?" Chase found that past experience proved House's hunches to be right.

House twirled his cane while looking over the whiteboard. "'Cause if I'm wrong, this guy will drown in his own fluids."

The Team marched out, each with the prospective duties to perform.

Greg sat down still fiddling with his cane while staring at the board. He thought about the various causes for the list of symptoms and what could be expected next for each disease's progression. Hopefully they'd come up with a diagnosis before autopsy.

He didn't know how long he had been sitting there lost in thought before Dr. James Wilson popped his head in.

"Your phone's ringing."

"Huh?" He was shaken from his thoughts.

"Answer your damn phone."

"If Cuddy wants me, she knows where to look."

"It's not Cuddy looking for you."

Greg's interest was piqued.

Wilson was about to let the door close behind him on his way out when he couldn't resist teasing his friend. He turned, poking his head back through. "Blonde, voluptuous, single." He left without further ado.

House's phone rang again. He pushed himself out of the chair hoping he'd make it to his office before it went to voicemail.

"Greg House." He looked to see if Wilson was standing outside spying on him. "Hi, Mom." James was going to catch hell the next time Greg saw him.

"You didn't call. I wanted to make sure everything is okay." Blythe House was as astute as her son, but not as blatant.

"I'm good. Everything okay with you?" He settled into his chair, leaning back. He had a feeling this was going to be a long conversation.

"I was expecting your call yesterday."

"Got home late. Didn't read the mail 'til much later. Figured I'd call you on my lunch break."

"Gregory." She drew out her son's name like an accusation.

He never was able to get a lie past his mother. "Okay, okay. I did get home late, and I was going to call you on my lunch break."

"As long as you got the invitation."

"I got it, and I'm confused." Greg twirled the phone cord around his finger while looking up at the ceiling.

"That's why I asked you to call me. Are you free to talk now?"

"For now. Got a case, but we're waiting on test results." He put his feet up on the desk. His right hand abandoned the cord and went absently to his right thigh. Methodically he kneaded at the scar tissue.

"Aunt Sarah has invited us to Thanksgiving Dinner," Blythe began.

House could tell something was amiss by the way his mother was trying to be nonchalant.

"Aunt Sarah lives in San Fran, not L.A."

"Aunt Sarah has been staying in Los Angeles for the last two months. She's being treated at Cedars Sinai."

Blythe had her son's full attention. His legs came off the desk, his hand reaching for a pen and paper. "Treated for what?"

"Something I can't even pronounce."

"Is it cancer? Should I bring Wilson along?"

"It's not cancer."

"Then what is it?" He was doodling on a spare bit of paper, just waiting to turn his lines into words that meant something. "Is it hereditary?"

"I can't even begin to tell you about it. I don't understand it myself." His mother was apologetic, especially knowing her genius son was already forming theories and treatment options in his head. "Besides, she doesn't want you there for a second opinion. She's had three or four of them already."

Greg dropped the pen and pushed away from his desk so he could look out the window at anything alive while he received the answer to his next question. "How long does she have?"

"What makes you think she's dying?" Like her son, Blythe was able to make specific inferences from a conversation based on what was left unsaid.

"I would think I'd be the last person she wanted to see." Greg heard the loathing in his own voice. "Sorry, Mom. I'm just trying to figure out why, after all these years, she's willing to forget the past."

"Because the past is just that, Greg. We've all got things in our past we wished never happened." She said this as if she was trying to convince her young son that he was still learning how to navigate his way through life. She hesitated slightly before continuing. "You're father died. She's felt alienated from what's left of her family. I haven't been able to visit her, but we talk at least once a week." She waited for her son's response. When none came, she had to say it: "She misses you."

"She hates me." Greg turned from the window, refocusing on the comforts of the toys on his desk.

"She doesn't hate you. You're the only living relative to carry on the House name," Blythe reminded him.

"Oy," Greg muttered. He knew exactly where this conversation was headed.

"I'm not getting any younger, Gregory. And neither are you."

"Ma," he whined. The last thing he needed was a reminder that he was single, never married, with no kids and fifty-three years old. He thought himself a bit of a playboy, but as far as his mom was concern he was a male spinster.

"Don't Ma me. This could be the last chance for us to be together on the holidays. Especially for your Aunt Sarah." She surely knew how to pour on the guilt.

"I don't know, Mom. My schedule is unpredictable. If I have a patient -"

"Your minions, as you call them, should be able to handle anything that comes up." Blythe could be sarcastic when needed.

"I don't know." Greg really knew. He didn't want to go. He already formulated plausible reasons not to show up.

"There's nothing to know, Gregory. Your flight is already booked. I had the travel agent send your ticket to your email account."

"How very techno savvy of you." He was cocky and weary from the conversation.

"I've never taken lip from you, and I'm not about to start." Blythe scolded him without the harsh tone that usually accompanied a warning.

"I'm sorry, Mom. I'm just a little tired and hungry."

"Get yourself some lunch. You'll feel better."

"Yes, Doctor Mom. Oh, gotta go, test results are back. I'll call you tonight."

"All right," she said hesitantly. "I'll talk to you later." It was a warning. "I love you, Greg."

He hung up quickly even though there was no one coming. He knew his mother knew it too.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Lunchtime rolled around and Greg found it difficult to focus on anything other than his conversation with his mom. There was only one distraction easily available and that was lunch with Wilson. He pushed his lanky frame out of his task chair, reaching out for the cane that rested against the desk. He had two avenues to reach Wilson's office. Three, actually. Two involved the potential for being stopped by other people, so he opted for the outside approach.

He pushed aside the blinds that covered his outside office door to the balcony. To his left was the dividing wall separating him from the Head of Oncology's balcony. Greg covered the distance in long loping steps. He positioned himself so he could lift his bum leg over the wall while balancing his butt squarely on the top. This allowed him to swing his left leg over and take the brunt of the momentum as he leaned forward into a standing position.

James Wilson saw the first hurdler's move and watched in wonder as the self-proclaimed 'cripple' demonstrated a physical prowess most able-bodied people wished they had. He sat back waiting for his friend to burst through the door. To his surprise, Greg opted to knock and waited to be invited in. James waved at him to enter.

"House, since when are you a vampire needing to be invited in? Wait." He looked at his watch. "Just as I suspected, it's lunchtime. Will you be wanting True Blood?"

"I was hoping we could grab a bite and talk." Greg stood over his cane using both hands on the crook to balance himself. He didn't meet his friend's gaze.

Wilson thought House looked as if he had a great weight on his shoulders. He knew his friend had spoken with his mother a short while ago. Blythe House had rung him to ask if her son was, in fact, at work today. Apparently she needed to speak with him.

"Everything okay with mom?" He began to clear his desk, making ready to leave for the cafeteria.

House sighed heavily before choosing his words. "Mom's good."

James sensed there was something he wasn't ready to talk about. Perhaps the lunch request would serve as an ulterior motive for a heart to heart conversation. House was always more talkative with food around.

Greg followed Wilson out of the door and toward the elevator. James gave him a sideways glance while they waited for the elevator car to arrive. The metal doors slid open, inviting them in to the empty cube. Again Greg followed Wilson's lead. When they were inside, standing side by side, each did an about face, standing toward the now closing doors. Wilson reached out to press the corresponding button that would take them to cafeteria. House returned to his posture of the hulking figure of Atlas as he leaned on his cane.

Neither man spoke on the ride down. Once again the car doors opened with Wilson stepping out while House followed. James slowed his pace thinking Greg's leg was causing him pain, keeping him from maintaining a regular pace. House accommodated by moving slower. Wilson felt like House was a lost puppy looking for a new master to lead him to food.

In the cafeteria food line they each took a tray. James reached for a tuna sandwich and fries thinking his friend would be pleased to eat them for him. He watched as House chose two orders of fries and filled a large cup with Coca Cola. They reached the cashier. Before Wilson could take his hands off his tray to reach for his wallet, House had pulled out his own.

James backed away from the counter. His face was filled with shock. He shook out his left arm while clutching at his chest with his right hand. House caught sight of this strange event out of the corner of his eye. The cashier was watching Wilson instead of taking House's cash. Greg turned to see Wilson crumble to the floor, much to the dismay of everyone in the immediate vicinity.

"Wilson!" House dropped to his knees. His hand went to his friend's carotid artery. Greg was prepared to shout for a crash cart until he discovered a strong pulse.

James opened his eyes. "I think I died and went to heaven."

"You scared the bahjesus out of everybody." House growled, using the counter to pull himself to his feet. "And people think I'm the ass."

Wilson scrambled to his feet, slightly embarrassed for making such a grand scene. "You never buy me lunch."

"I haven't paid yet," Greg reminded him.

"You must really have gotten bad news from your mother this morning."

Greg paid for their lunches and followed Wilson to a table. He plopped his tray down on the table before following suit with his butt onto the chair. "I guess we should start this conversation off on the right foot."

Wilson looked to him with anticipation.

"If you ever refer to my mother as voluptuous again-"

"You've got to admit it. It got you curious," Wilson grinned cunningly.

Before they could do much more than take a bite of lunch, Eric Foreman entered the cafeteria in search of his boss.

"House, there you are."

Greg looked up as if Foreman was a pesky paparazzo hounding him for a close up. "All the tests were negative. Except for the scratch test. Chase is doing that now."

"And you needed to interrupt my lunch because?"

Foreman rolled his eyes. "Because you were right. Our patient had a midnight snack."

"Something he had on the shelf, or did he order in?"

"Take out. And apparently edible underwear is not hypoallergenic."

"Case solved, now go away. Daddy's busy with Uncle Wilson."

"Oh, and before I forget, Cuddy is aware the case is over. She told me to tell you to 'get your rear end in the clinic after lunch'."

"Now I'm going to tell you to tell Cuddy you never saw me. Shoo!" Greg waved him away his understudy returning his attention to Wilson. "Where were we?"

"I'm never to refer to your mother as voluptuous, ever again."

"Right."

But House was not immediately forthcoming with any other information. James watched him play with his fries, rearranging them on the plate in a sad sort of stream of conscience art project. His preoccupation was, in itself, a conundrum. Greg was often in need of a distraction for his hyperactive mind. Scheming and plotting his next manipulative scenario to thwart the Dean of Medicine was his hobby. Introspective thought was definitely not the norm.

"Did you talk to Mom before I did?"

It was Wilson's turn to choose his words carefully. "She called me after trying you a few times." Greg was staring at him accusatorily. James shrugged. "I'm sorry. She was worried. If I had known it was her, I would have ignored the ringing and went about my day."

"What did you tell her?"

"She wanted to know if you were in, and if so, whether or not I thought you'd be able to talk to her today."

"And WHAT did you tell her?" He wasn't as casual about it.

"I told her to keep trying you. Eventually she'd catch you."

"Anything else?"

Wilson wasn't sure what House was fishing for, but whatever the context of the phone conversation had been, Greg was certainly worried. James shook his head, his eyes focused on his friend. "Did you get bad news?"

"Not really . . .not sure . . .maybe. Aw crap, I don't know." He tossed the food in his hand back on the place with frustration.

House's agitation was contagious. Wilson followed suit, leaning back in his seat, now focused on the possibility that something was seriously wrong with Blythe House.

"You have to tell me." James was firm. "This will eat at both of us until you get it off your chest."

"And unload it onto your conscience." Greg took a deep, cleansing breath and resumed eating.

"Any time now," Wilson cajoled.

"I got a dinner invitation." He made it sound like it was the end of the world.

"That's it?" Wilson's eyebrows migrated to his hairline in disbelief and relief.

"Well, the meal is being served in California."

Definitely not what James expected out of his friend's mouth. His lips floundered like a goldfish sucking for air. "Wha, why would she assume you could drop everything and go across the country for dinner?" But before House could answer, James had another thought. "Do you even know anybody in California?"

"Yeah. My father's sister. My Aunt Sarah." Greg's tone was morose.

"Where does she live?"

"San Francisco. But the invite is for a location in Los Angeles."

"Who's in Los Angeles? Wait, your mother invited you to a dinner in L.A.? I'm lost." Wilson leaned in, wondering if his friend was leading him on a wild goose chase.

"My mother just forwarded my invite. Aunt Sarah's seemingly sick and being treated at Cedars Sinai. She's staying with some friends in L.A. Mom and I were invited to Thanksgiving dinner at the friend's place."

House's explanation was pretty benign. Well at least most of it. The part about Aunt Sarah was a little disconcerting. "Are you going?"

"I'd rather not." Greg shoved fry after fry into his mouth in order to avoid having to say anything else.

"You should go. Get some sunshine. See the other ocean for a change."

"What are you, the Ambassador to California?" The frustration was creeping back into his posture and voice.

"Then don't go. Stay home. Be miserable. Just another day in Jersey." Wilson was disappointed with his friend. He gave up so many opportunities to break away from his misery, yet failed to seize the day and explore the world in a grown up way that would expand his opportunities for happiness.

"There's only one problem with that," Greg confessed.

"How can there be a problem if you've already made up your mind not to go?"

"Mom's made the reservations already." He noted Wilson's look of disbelief. "The flight has been booked, at least."

"Oh." True shock.

"I don't understand how she thinks I can get off for the holiday." Again vexation was bowing his posture.

"Thanksgiving - well, pre-Thanksgiving if your slowest time of the year. Things don't get interesting until after Black Friday." James just couldn't help playing devil's advocate.

"Did you tell my mom that?" The suspicious mind of Gregory House was at full throttle.

"No. I just thought of it," he said innocently. "When does your plane leave?"

"I haven't even looked yet." Greg shuddered. "I can't bring myself to not think that there's something more to this than just a dinner invite."

"What could there be?"

Greg rested his elbow on the table, using his palm to serve as a stand for his forehead. "She threw out the 'you haven't made me a grandma yet' guilt trip."

"Uh oh." Wilson sat back, rubbing his hand over his chin.

"Yeah. Now you see my dilemma."

"You're screwed."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Greg waited until he got home before deciding to open the email from the travel agent. If his mother hadn't told him about it, he would have never noticed it. His spam blocker quarantined it to suspect mail. He never looked at that folder. It would have been deleted. _Damn._ It would have been the perfect excuse.

Instead he had a flight itinerary. His plane was due to depart the Sunday before Thanksgiving. The return flight was the following Sunday. "What was she thinking," he exclaimed. _No way Cuddy would okay that._ _Shit, she so would._ Lisa had been bugging him to take a real vacation for ages.

His phone was in his hand dialing his mother's number without an organized thought in his head.

"Greg? Are you home already?" His mother seemed genuinely shocked to hear from him so soon.

"Yeah, I took a look at my flight itinerary."

"You sound upset." She didn't sound pleased.

"Still tired."

"You're patient doing okay?"

"Diagnosed, treated and discharged."

"Then you can get some rest. Call me tomorrow. I'll tell you about the hotel reservations then. Goodnight, Greg." She hung up before he could respond.

It all seemed a little too suspicious. The seemingly overwhelming amount of detail put into the one-sided planning of this event was oppressive. Somewhere deep down it was also exhilarating. Especially since his mother had no idea what he had been through emotionally and physically since John House had died. What should have been a liberating event turned on him, causing the first slide in a series of downward spirals leading to the depths of his own personal hell. It was like fate was trying to guide him toward social situations he found daunting. The level of social anxiety he suffered from increased since the Mayfield stint.

Dr. Nolan thought that SSRI's would help with that, but Greg knew it had nothing to do with his depression. That particular disease had morphed through his progression from boy to man. The social issues were separate; a result of a toxic family full of co-dependency and instability. Moving frequently around the world, through vastly different cultures, never provided him the necessary social skills needed to forge a solid understanding of his place in that world.

It was very possible that most of his social gatherings attending during his formative years were overshadowed by his dysfunctional relationship with his father, and almost always ended in disappointment followed by disciplinary measures. In the absence of the father, it might just be possible for him to experience a social gathering where few knew him personally and there were no expectations. Did he have it within himself to step out of old habits and insecurities and find a new, improved version of the man everyone thought was brilliant but an ass? Nolan would tell him to do it. What was the worst thing that could happen? He would either gain insight and grow or repeat old mistakes and remain the same. Nothing to lose.

Greg went to bed with an overall positive feeling. His leg ached, but only at its usual level. The anxiety and apprehension of earlier in the day abated with his mother's willingness to not nag her son about plans and parties. He was less tense, and without his body being wired, the leg muscles had a chance to relax. Of course, being in bed didn't actually mean sleeping. He had always been an insomniac. Even before med school. Four solid hours of sleep a night was considered a good night's rest. But that rarely happened. The pattern was more like forty minutes to an hour of sleep, awake and tossing and turning for up to twenty minutes before the next cycle began.

Being a doctor, he knew that there might be some sleep apnea involved. When he had been hallucinating, just weeks before his breakdown, Wilson had tested him in the sleep lab. There were no abnormalities that woke him from slumber. He progressed through the different sleep cycles, albeit quickly, yet there were no brain wave or breathing interruptions that triggered his unusual sleep patterns. The painfully restless limb and ever racing mind were the culprits. Only when his thoughts shut off, could Greg House put in a full night's rest.

And his thoughts continued to race. Greg stared up at the ceiling, which in the darkness presented a dark chasm tugging at his thoughts like a psychic black hole. The void of nothingness extracted snippets of memories past, peeling away the layers of regression until a faint outline of what had been carefully ensconced in the gauzelike mesh of cloudy memory could be seen. He was seven or eight. A precocious young lad full of newly learned experiences that begged to be explored further by putting the theories into use in random situations.

Of course, by that age Greg had understood heat, hot and that placing a hand in a flame was not a good idea. Almost every child learned that lesson by approaching a stove. He was able to understand the connections between heat and its ability to transform substances into something else. The propensity for grasping chemistry and physics was quite evident in the budding prodigy. He was proud of himself for making those types of connections intellectually years ahead of his cohorts. It should have made his parents take notice, but they took it all in stride.

Thanksgiving dinner was a tradition at Aunt Sarah's. Holidays always seemed the best time to show off new talents. After everyone exclaimed how much the little ones grew, it followed course for oneself to demonstrate new skills. And naturally, Greg liked to surprise people with his new found brain power. He'd rather set the scene and manipulate the players so he looked the part of a hero. This particular time it served a two-fold purpose.

Dinner was set to be served closer to four than two. He had skimped at breakfast as his father laid down some ground rules for their excursion. The phrased like 'children are seen and not heard', 'don't speak unless spoken to', 'don't interrupt', and all the other restrictions adults set forth upon children were issued. When the House family arrived at their destination and the door opened inviting them to a home filled with the glorious smells of roasting turkey and sweet pies, it set Greg's stomach to growling. That garnered harsh glares from John House. He was embarrassed by his son's natural body function. Greg received the warning look of dissatisfaction from his father. It was one that told him it was his own fault for not finishing breakfast.

So Greg was forced to sit in the living room, listening to pleasantries spoken by the adults. Phony conversations of flower beds and Army/Navy football games seemed to be the subjects of the day. He excused himself from the room, a tactic hardly noticed by the four adults, and snuck into the kitchen.

There he peeked into pots simmering on the stove top. The amazing smells of sage, thyme and rosemary permeated the air making his mouth water in anticipation. He turned on the oven light, peering through the tempered double pane of glass revealing the turkey roasting to a golden brown as pumpkin and apple pies cooked on the rack beneath. Greg's stomach rumbled with a ferocity that only the starving could feel. Sure that he would die from lack of food, he decided to speed things along just a bit.

After all, if a turkey cooked at 350 degrees for 6 hours, then that same turkey would only take, say, 4 hours if a higher temperature was applied. Greg spun the dial to 475 degrees. He left the rest alone, seeing how it all seemed to be already cooked and left on low flame to keep warm until the bird finished. He returned to the living room, a satisfied smile on his face.

It wasn't even twenty minutes later when the scent of turkey emanated strongly. Everyone concurred that it was just about the most inviting smell there was to offer. That was until a slight acridness crept in.

"The bird's burning!"

Aunt Sarah rushed into the kitchen, Blythe House close at heel.

"Harold, John!" She shrieked.

Greg remembered his father mumbling something about the turkey being heavy and requiring a man to get it out of the oven.

He followed his dad to the kitchen. Something wasn't right. As a matter of fact, something was terribly wrong. The kitchen was filled with smoke. Flames were present behind the over door glass. The golden bird was blackening to incineration right before their eyes. Greg was shoved to the side as Uncle Harold tried to help. But within those few short seconds, the oven and stove top were engulfed, flames licking their way up the walls, across the cupboards and everywhere it found fuel to feed itself. He was awestruck.

Standing outside the domicile, the House family was surrounded by fire trucks, their hoses snaking across the front lawn and into the home through the front door and broken windows. Aunt Sarah was sobbing uncontrollably into Uncle Harold's chest. John House stood with his arm around his wife's shoulder, staring into the disaster with an occasional side glance to his son, who was enrapt with the flurry of activity around him, oblivious to the anguish his family was experiencing.

When the fire chief came out and spoke to the men, Greg was distracted by the other firemen rolling up the hoses. It wasn't until his father's talon like grip pierced his shoulder that little Greg was aware of just how much trouble he was in. It wasn't the first time this bird of prey's approach signaled grief.

Greg looked up into his father's eyes feeling the full weight of his glare.

House's eyes popped open. He was lying on his back, unaware of how long he had been asleep. He rolled his head to the side to read the digital alarm clock. Damn, only midnight. He tossed and turned, trying to find a comfortable position, the ache in his leg having ratcheted up a few notches.

Finally he gave up, hoisting himself to a sitting position while trying to stretch the cramped muscles of his right thigh. It took two hands and a lot of momentum just to swing his legs over the side of the bed. Gingerly he tried to get to his feet, prepared for the stiff leg to buckle at the slightest onset of pressure. Two steps later had him falling to his hands and knees, the jarring motion further exacerbating the pain in his thigh.

He had two choices: pull himself to a standing position or submit and roll onto his back like a helpless turtle.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Greg sat in the living room, a bottle of bourbon with its top off, a half glass of the amber liquid sitting next to it, his leg propped on the coffee table and the remote control pointed at the television as several channels shuffled before his eyes. 'This must be what a zombie feels like,' he thought. His body ached with the need for sleep. The sandman had blown his magic grit into Greg's eyes. Instead of sweet slumber he got scratched corneas. At one point it occurred to him to use the bourbon as an eye wash. It would either relieve the burning or take his pain to a level that would surely render him unconscious.

With nothing to occupy him visually, he deactivated the TV. He picked up the glass, emptying it in a quick swig. It was easier to head back to bed when his eyes burned stronger than his leg hurt. He collapsed, body splayed across the mattress. Winkin', Blinkin' and Nod finally kicked his ass.

The last vestiges of his dream returned. The fire chief was speaking with the grown- ups. Greg heard snatches of the conversation. It wasn't like he was immune to their backward glances. They discovered the oven had been turned up. How was he supposed to know that turkeys had the proclivity for bursting into flames? Shouldn't ovens be self-contained fire pits? Was he really at fault for nearly burning down the house?

Dad was livid. He eyes had turned to black pits of fury. Greg knew he was in for it when they got home. The rest of the afternoon and the car ride were spent in uncomfortable silence. Dad never looked at him, but mom occasionally peered over her shoulder, an infinite sadness in her eyes. He had endured the weight of his father's disappointment before, but his mother's emotions compounded it exponentially. Begging her forgiveness wasn't even an option. She might as well join in the beating he was surely going to get.

After pulling into the driveway their car doors slammed simultaneously. Greg sat in the back seat, afraid to move. The moment he left the car he would be hunted down and punished. The wait was only as long as it took for his father to change clothes and choose the right weapon.

When the looming figure of John House stepped through the front door onto the porch, Greg felt his stomach drop. There was no visible means of punishment in dad's hand, but that didn't mean much. His first beating occurred with hands and fists. His father approached the car, opening the door for his son to exit.

"The garage." John's long arm pointed the way.

Greg marched in that direction, his head hung in shame. Dad followed, stepping closely behind. He entered the dark space in silent trepidation.

John flicked on the overhead light to reveal a chair directly under the bare bulb. Greg took the seat without being told. He faced his father bravely.

"Gregory, what you did today was irresponsible."

That wasn't the first thing he expected his father to say. A confession - possibly beaten out of him - yes. The lecture usually came afterwards. But there was no asking if he did anything. Was there a look of guilt on his face at the scene of the crime? Could he even call it a crime? It wasn't intentional. He was just hungry.

John stared at his son with expectation. When there was no response, he took a threatening step forward.

"I didn't mean for anything to happen," Greg said quickly.

"But it did." John stood over his son, scowling. "Destroying Aunt Sarah's house was bad enough. But Oma's legacy was in that kitchen. Your heritage gone up in smoke and flames because you were hungry."

Greg felt bad enough having ruined the holiday. Discovering the destruction of his family history had larger connotations. He might as well have killed Oma himself. He was unable to meet his father's eyes with the shame he felt.

To John House that was an unacceptable sign of weakness. "Look at me!" His grizzled voice startled Greg into looking up just as the open hand connected with the side of his head. It sent him sprawling off the chair to the concrete floor.

Greg wasn't quick enough at getting up. He was stunned, his ear straining to hear over the freight train thrumming through his head. He could see his father's lips moving, unsure what he was saying. From the body language he appeared to be yelling then asking a question.

The young boy's body was lifted off the floor by his collar and slammed against the wall. The man's face wavered before the boy's eyes. The hands left the shirt. Greg collapsed against the wall, sliding down to a crumpled heap on the floor. He couldn't distinguish his father's last words as the light went out and the door closed behind him.

His body ached with the pain of being slammed around. Well at least that what it felt like. Upon opening his eyes, Greg knew it had only been a memory relived in a dream. Still his body ached. He raised his head to see what time it was. Still early but not necessarily late enough to get out of bed.

It took two hands on his bad thigh again to guide it with the rest of his body as he rolled on to his back. The position was a little better than the previous, yet still torturous on the leg. He was forced to roll on his right side and pull the leg to his chest as he curled up in pain.

It lingered like an old friend who didn't know when to go home. The pain was both comforting and irritating in waves. And Greg knew it was exacerbated by his emotional state. How would he ever make it through a family holiday with these pain levels? His mother never knew the agony he suffered; only that the infarction was excruciating at the time. Stacey shielded him from his parents' ignorance.

The trouble he faced now was trying to come up with a way to bow out of the invitation without compromising his vulnerable state. He dozed as he thought about it.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Back at work Greg printed out the flight itinerary, looking for the fine print that told him how to go about submitting a refund. He sure as hell didn't want his mother to lose out on the money she spent for a round trip first class ticket. Even more so, he didn't want to have to reimburse her out of his own pocket.

His phone rang. He dreaded a conversation with her this early in the morning. A quick look at the phone console revealed that it was an internal call.

"House." He was half expecting Wilson or one of his lackey's.

"You're supposed to be in the clinic." The Dean of Medicine was not in a good mood.

"Great, I was meaning to talk to you."

"In my office. Now."

"About that…" Greg was conflicted in asking a favor. "Could you come up to my office?"

"You do as I ask. Not the other way around. Get down here and fulfill your clinic hours." Cuddy wasn't falling for his old games.

"I really need a get out of jail free pass this time." He hated having to beg. "My leg hurts."

"How bad?" Cuddy was worried. House hadn't used that excuse since before Mayfield.

"Bad enough that I'm telling you," he confessed, feeling somewhat weak and ashamed.

"I'll be right up."

The phone disconnected leaving Greg to wonder if she really was concerned.

Cuddy got off the elevator heading straight for the office of James Wilson. She knocked then opened the door.

Wilson looked up from his paperwork. "Problem?"

"Need you." She stood waiting for Wilson to follow her.

"A consult?" He shrugged on his lab coat.

"House. He says he's in too much pain to work the clinic."

"That's not a problem, that's a routine."

"If he's really hurting, I'm not sure how I can help him."

They headed for House's office, Wilson finally joining her with that reasoning.

Greg's head was down on his desk, his left arm folded like a pillow under it for comfort. The right hand kneaded at the thigh. He looked up expecting only to see Cuddy.

"You brought reinforcements. Good, because if you want me to go anywhere, you're going to have to pick me up and carry me."

"Maybe you should sit in the other chair and put your leg up," Lisa suggested.

"Like I said, I can't make it on my own."

"Lean on me," Wilson stepped up waiting for House's instructions.

Greg fought to get to his feet using the desk's flat surface for leverage. He stayed bent over, struggling to balance on one foot. He didn't put any weight on his right leg.

"Here, take the cane in your left hand and hook your arm around my shoulder."

The height difference kept House stooped a bit, leaving Wilson to bear a little extra weight. They moved painfully slowly across the room while Cuddy watched, wringing her hands. She had questions, but would wait until he was situated. He needed all of his concentration focused on successfully moving from point A to point B.

Wilson eased him into the chair then gently moved his legs onto the ottoman. "Can you find him a couple of pillows and a blanket," he spoke over his shoulder to Cuddy.

She rushed out of the room in search of the items.

James took the opportunity to question his friend while checking his vitals. "Is this emotionally inflicted or did you do something to injure yourself?"

Greg relaxed as much as he could leaning into the Eames chair. "A little of both."

Cuddy returned and stepped right in at making her patient comfortable.

"I had a bad night. Couldn't sleep. Tossed and turned a little too much."

The Dean looked expectantly to her Head of Oncology, who just finished checking House's blood pressure.

"His heart rate and blood pressure are elevated, but that's to be expected with his pain levels."

"I wish I was soaking in a hot bath right now," Greg moaned.

"Moist heat," Lisa said absently. She ran off leaving the boys to wonder.

Greg seemed to relax a little more as the elevation of his leg relieved some of the pressure, taking the raking pain down to a razor-edged ache.

"The emotional side of things," Wilson hesitated, unsure how to proceed delicately. "Is it due to talking with your mom?"

House winced with that thought. He loved his mother dearly. Well, dearly for him. Their relationship was, at best, complicated. "It has less to do with mom and more to do with the subject matter."

Their moment of reflection was disrupted by the sound of Cuddy's shoes clacking in the hall. She entered the room carrying two thick, luxurious, steaming towels.

"Pull back the blanket and make it quick. These suckers are hot." As soon as Wilson complied, Cuddy placed the moist heat pack sandwiched between two Turkish towels across House's thigh."

The weight, at first, was surprising, but the calmingly intense heat immediately decreased his pain to a tolerable level. The look on his face was euphoric as his body further melted into the chair.

Cuddy rearranged the blanket over him. "You want to tell us what's bothering you?"

"He got an invitation to Thanksgiving dinner."

That alone should have meant nothing; except Cuddy felt a twinge of guilt in the pit of her stomach. Last year's cruel prank of sending House on a three hour wild goose chase for a turkey sandwich had something to do with it.

"How far do you have to travel?"

"Seven hours by plane," House moaned.

"You'll make it," Cuddy tried to sound encouraging. "You flew to the far east and back." That wasn't such a good example as half of the plane came down with suspected meningitis.

"I had a bottle of Vicodin in my pocket during those days," Greg reminded them.

James and Lisa were silent.

"It has nothing to do with the transportation methods."

"Then what's the problem? Getting the time off is a given."

"Aunt Sarah is the first obstacle. She wants me to come for several reasons."

"And that's bad?"

"Oh yea," Greg laughed sarcastically. "We haven't been on the best of terms in over forty years."

"You're stressed out over something that happened when you were a kid?" Wilson wasn't sure if his friend was exaggerating.

"Thanksgiving dinner, 1966. I single-handedly burned down her house."

Wilson and Cuddy looked at each other, wide-eyed, each trying to suppress the laughter attempting to force its way past their lips. Greg House left a wake of destruction everywhere he went.

"I wish I could laugh about it." He was mad that they thought it was amusing.

"Oh House, it's not that it's funny at all. It's just the way you said it." Cuddy lied. "I'm sure she's forgiven you by now."

"I don't know. We've hardly spoken since then."

"Maybe this invitation is her attempt at burying the hatchet," James offered.

"Mom says she's pretty sick. At first I thought it was a way of getting me involved in the diagnosis, but I've been assured that's not the case."

"Is she dying?" Lisa held Greg's hand for support.

"Probably. I got the lecture about being the last male in the family line. The name dies with me unless I miraculously find a wife and have a son."

"No pressure there, I'm sure."

"I wouldn't be surprised if the two of them try to set me up with someone while I'm there."

Now Wilson and Cuddy did laugh out loud. Greg was able to join in.

"You should go, have a little fun," Lisa encouraged him.

Greg stopped smiling. He wasn't sure how to explain his real fear.

"It's about the pain." Wilson's aha moment was solemn.

House nodded. "If thinking about it got me to this point, what am I going to do once I'm there?"

"You work through it."

"I'm not very nice when I'm like this."

"They'll understand. Your mom will help."

"My mom is clueless." He noted their reactions. "She has no idea. After the infarction Stacey ran a lot of interference - especially since my father seemed to think I was milking the injury and being a baby. I'm sure he convinced my mother of it. It was easier for Stacey to be condescending to the big bully and reassuring to my mom."

"That explains a lot."

"She knows nothing about the Vicodin, about Mayfield. She just thinks I'm a cantankerous old man." He laughed sardonically.

"Explain it to her," Cuddy suggested. "Tell her you have a lot of pain; that it's difficult to deal with, and you're worried you'll disrupt the holiday."

"She'd just tell me to come anyway," he sighed resignedly.

"All the more reason to go. Spend some time with your mom and let her get to know the real you."

"I don't think she'll like who she meets." Greg went quiet. Perhaps that was the real reason he didn't want to go.

"You're not being fair. You can't know what her reaction will be if you don't give her a chance."

"Your mother met me, and she hates me." He glared at Cuddy.

"My mother doesn't hate you. Distrusts you, maybe. But hate? I doubt it. And don't take it personally. My mother doesn't trust anybody when it comes to her daughters."

"If you give your mother a little advanced warning, then at least she can decide on what she thinks would be best," James reasoned.

"She'll still want me to go."

"Then go!" Cuddy and Wilson shouted at the same time.

"You can do this. And if things go sour, you come home earlier than planned." Lisa patted his hand.

"You two are insufferable."

Once they had left, Greg pulled out his cell phone. The call went through quickly ringing only once before Blythe House picked up.

"Greg, are you off today?"

"No, just not at my desk."

"You sound tired, dear."

"A bit." He took a deep breath before continuing. "Look Ma, we have to talk."

"So talk, I'm listening."

"No Mom. It's not something you should hear over the phone. Can you come to Jersey for the weekend?


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

It was settled that Greg's mom would spend some time with her son before they embarked on a cross country journey. The anticipation and trepidation was enough to keep Greg edgy and tense, thereby exacerbating his pain levels. He ran several different scenarios through his head wondering how best to tell his mother he wasn't the nicest person in the world when in pain. He wanted her to understand that he had kept the severity of his infirmity from her so that she didn't worry about him unnecessarily. How much could he leave out and how much would he have to confess to?

He had every intention of meeting her at the airport, but a culmination of circumstances prevented it. He sent Wilson instead.

James waited at the luggage carousel tagged for Blythe's arriving flight. She entered with a throng of other passengers all seeking the same things. He could see Mrs. House scanning the crowds, no doubt looking over their heads for her lanky son's bedraggled hair and face full of scruff. Wilson realized she'd never spot him at this rate, so he climbed onto a lounge seat and began waving his arm.

Blythe smiled warmly, practically laughing a James' antics. She waved back, acknowledging him, and stood in front of the conveyor belt waiting for her travel case.

James excused his way through the waiting travelers, reaching out to Blythe's waiting arms. They hugged like mother and son, the woman pulling back only to ask about Greg.

"Does he have a case?"

"Just finishing up. He'll meet us at home." He stared at the luggage going round in order to avoid lying to House's mom directly to her face. "Which one is yours?"

"The black one with the blue ribbon on the handle."

She looked on as James snagged it like a fisherman.

They began to stroll out of the jam of people toward the exit. Wilson looked straight ahead, mind elsewhere. Blythe watched him. He was such an open book compared to her son. James was a worse liar. His silence was forced. He looked like he wanted to say something. Greg was always hiding something. There was a problem if he wasn't quiet and brooding. She could always tell Greg was censoring himself as not to upset his mother.

Once in the car, she tried conversation. "So what's my son been up to?"

"Same old, same old."

"Work, work and more work?" She chuckled.

Wilson nodded.

"That boy needs to get out more. He needs a hobby."

James laughed. 'If she only knew.'

"I'm worried about him." Blythe was dead serious.

"How so?" Wilson knew they were approaching dangerous territory.

"I thought that after John passed away we could have a better relationship. I've reached out to him a few times, but he shut me out. I've felt rejected and alone." She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.

Wilson felt helpless in that moment. He spied a Denny's up ahead and pulled into the parking lot. "Let's go in and get some coffee. We can talk somewhat in private."

Blythe nodded, blowing her nose.

They sat at a booth in the back corner. Wilson suggested she think about ordering something to eat as he was pretty sure Greg hadn't had a chance to do any grocery shopping lately.

"He's still living the bachelor's life," James explained. "Sometimes he's at the hospital days in a row. Thing go bad in the fridge. It's easier to pick up what you need when you need it."

"Typical men," she shook her head.

The waitress came supplying them with coffee and menus. They both knew what they wanted and ordered immediately.

"Give me a moment." James exited the booth. "I'll go outside and call House to let him know our flight was delayed. That way he won't expect us right away."

Blythe nodded. She knew her son was smarter than that and probably checked out the airline schedule already. James would get his comeuppance later. That was between the two of them. At least Greg would know she was safe.

Wilson returned smiling. Greg wasn't the least bit suspicious. He took a long sip of coffee before addressing House's mother.

"Out with it, James. Whatever you have to tell me about my son, I can handle it."

James smiled inwardly. House got his blatant forwardness from her.

"Greg is worried about this trip you have planned for him."

Blythe smiled knowingly. "It's just a small get together; nothing he should be worried about."

"You and I both realize that, but Greg has issues. There are things about himself he hasn't told you."

Her face showed concern. James figured he had to do a little explaining or there'd be trouble. But how much should he expose?

"Does this have anything to do with the rift you two had just before John died?"

Wilson was grateful she was so astute. He was surprised she didn't already know what was going on. He nodded. "House was interviewing new applications for the Diagnostics Fellowship Program. There was this brilliant doctor; she was exactly like him."

"Oh dear," Blythe thought she understood where this was headed.

"She didn't make the Team. Maybe it was because she was too much like him. He said it was because she was afraid to be wrong; to fail.

"I liked her a lot. We hooked up, moved in together." James was smiling in spite of the circumstances.

"To make a long story short, there was tension between me and him and him and her. But we worked it out. They shared me." He actually chuckled with that thought, although his eyes glistened with unshed tears.

"Then one night he got drunk after work and called my house for a ride home. Amber, that was her name, went in my stead because I was at work. He decided to take the bus rather than ride with her.

"He left his cane behind, so she got on the bus to give it to him; to make sure he got home okay.

"There was an accident. Amber died from complications to her injuries."

Blythe reached across the table for James' hands. "I'm sorry."

"I was so grief stricken I blamed Greg. I loved her. She was so young and smart and beautiful. I reasoned that if Greg had never called, she'd still be alive. I couldn't stand being around him. I hated him for taking away her future with me. I resigned from my job and made plans to leave town."

"Oh James, I never knew. And then I asked you to bring him to me."

Their tender moment was broken by the waitress serving dinner. Neither one had much of an appetite at that point.

"Did he feel responsible?" Blythe knew her son was stand-offish at times.

"I think he did. But he denied it. Instead he threw himself into work."

"And then his dad died. I pushed him into being there. I wanted to show him off in front of John's colleagues. That and I'd never be able to explain why his own son missed the funeral." It was her turn to confess a selfish motive. "John was very proud of him, even though Greg didn't think so."

Wilson held his tongue. The things Greg had told him about his childhood and the suspected infidelity of his mother weighed heavy in his thoughts. Obviously Mrs. House either didn't believe what her husband had done to their son was abuse, or she was hiding it from the world and hoping Greg did the same.

"It didn't end there," James finally said. "One of the young doctors he had picked for his team was named Lawrence Kutner. At six year old, Kutner witnessed his parents gunned down in their family store. He was a bit like Greg must have been as a child. Very inquisitive. His adoptive parents even told us Kutner blew up things with his first chemistry set.

"I think House saw a little bit of himself in him. Kutner was willing to take risks and think outside the box. He also worshipped your son."

The way James was talking, Blythe knew the young doctor was no longer around. "What happened?"

"He killed himself."

"Oh, that's awful!"

"House took it badly. He blamed the parents. He worked a homicide angle. He refused to believe that someone so young and so like him could self-destruct."

Blythe had forced herself to eat a little during the conversation, but now she was regretting it. "They say death comes in threes." Silently she wondered how her son had dealt with these tragedies. She was afraid of what James might tell her. "How's he dealing in the aftermath?"

"It's been very difficult for him. He's had some very trying times," Wilson admitted without giving away anything. "Do you know what a conversion disorder is?"

She shook her head negatively.

"In Greg's case, it's when psychological stress tricks the mind into thinking the body is in more pain that it actually is."

"So Greg's leg hurts more than it should?"

"Something like that. He plans on talking to you about it . . .the pain that is. Please don't tell him I told you about the conversion disorder." Wilson was already angry with himself for saying anything.

Blythe patted his hand. "I'll pretend I know nothing - like I have been ever since the infarction. He thinks he's shielded me from his pain, but a mother knows."

James was relieved. "You should tell him that. He doesn't think you would understand."

"I know him better than he knows himself," she said with a wink.

Wilson laughed to himself. House seemed to get a lot of his instinctive traits from his mother.

Greg sat in the living room tapping his cane between his legs. Wilson blatantly lied to him, but for what reason? Was Wilson going to spill the beans and blab about his drug addiction and subsequent breakdown? Greg had no intention of telling her any of that. He just wanted her to know that he had pain, and sometimes it was so debilitating it turned him into an ogre.

His fear of losing it while on holiday was his most immediate concern. He didn't want to embarrass and alienate his mother in front of strangers in a strange city so far from home. He'd never be able to forgive himself.

The front door opened, startling him from his reverie. He stood awkwardly and hobbled over to his mother. She didn't miss the heavy limp or tired look in his eyes.

"Sit down and don't fuss over me."

She walked him back to the couch. There they hugged, for what Greg considered an extra long time. He looked over her shoulder at Wilson, who had a hard time not looking guilty.

"Do you want some tea or anything?" Greg wanted to make his mother comfortable before settling in for the evening.

"I'm good. I must confess our little white lie. I asked James to stop off at a diner for some coffee and a bite to eat. I wasn't sure you'd be home in time for dinner."

Wilson nodded vigorously. "I was at her mercy."

"No matter. You're here and we can relax and have a nice visit."

"Do you need me to do anything before I go?' James felt out of place.

"We'll go out for groceries tomorrow. I want to wow my mother with what I learned in cooking class."

"You took cooking classes? I'm impressed!"

"I'll tell you the story of how I saved Wilson's burning balls," Greg teased.

"On that note, I'll take my leave and say good night." Wilson bowed out the door like a Shakespearean actor leaving the stage.

"So how are you really?" Blythe gave her son the 'mom look' as if she could see right into his thoughts.

"Over all pretty much okay. I have good days and bad days like most people," he confessed. There was no need to lie now.

"Today's a bad day?"

"Today's a not so good day; but not exactly a bad day."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Morning dawned with the smell of coffee brewing. Caffeine was always a precursor to functioning, yet this time it was way too early for Greg to think about getting out of bed. For Christ's sake, it was still dark outside. And a Saturday. His watch read seven a.m. Greg groaned. He was neither irritated nor frustrated, just extra tired from a night on the couch.

His mom tinkered in the kitchen silently. She had her own routine, which was apparently very different from his. He was at least three time zones behind her when it came to waking up and functioning. Deciding to ignore her, he shifted position on the couch. Well, he tried to, but that didn't go over very well.

His breath caught as the muscles in his leg spasmed. Blythe heard his earlier moan and now the hiss. He was uncomfortable and it was probably due to her usurpation of his bed. She argued the night before with him that she'd be fine on the sofa, but he wouldn't hear of it.

She formulated her own plan while he tried to sleep. It was hard knowing her son was sacrificing his body for her comfort. She could easily blame her early rising on his lumpy bed, or any other number of reasons she could convince him of. Knowing his chivalric ways, he'd refuse, so she would have to be adamant.

By the time she poured her second cup, Greg was sitting up. He had thrown off the afghan and seemed to be working at kneading his thigh. She poured him a steaming hot mug of the brew and brought it to him, placing it on the coffee table. "Are all your mornings as rough as this?"

He didn't look up at her, just nodded. "Mostly."

"I assume there's not much you can do about it."

"I've just got to work it out. Once I get a little looser, I can walk." He still didn't look up at her. He didn't want his mother to see his agony. Nor did he want to see the pity in her eyes.

"Why didn't you want to share this little fact with me? It's nothing to be ashamed are embarrassed about."

"Don't, Ma." He finally met her gaze. "It's hard enough to deal with when you're not sitting there watching me with sympathy."

"I think you've got that wrong. I don't pity you, I hurt for you. It's not easy for me to see you this way and know there's nothing in the world I can say or do to make it better."

"I'd appreciate it if you keep your sympathy low key. In my own home I allow myself to show it. Beyond that door, I'm superman."

"All boys wish they were indestructible," she said sadly. "Why should my son be any different?"

"You're probably going to see a lot of the destructible me this weekend. No charade. The real deal. That way you can help me to determine if going to L.A. is a good idea."

"Greg, you're being over dramatic. I want you there no matter what. And so does Aunt Sarah."

"We'll talk about her later," Greg's voice held a note of contempt that wasn't lost on his mother.

"I see what you mean."

"I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing for who you are."

"Does that mean I can be mean and rotten all I want?" He was more relaxed.

"Not if you don't have to. And not to me. I'm an old lady," she teased.

"Mom's always know how to spoil a boy's fun."

"Uh, let's not even go there." Blythe may have been an older woman, but she wasn't innocent in her thinking. God only knew what her grown son's idea of fun was.

She got up after having an idea. "I'm going to run you a hot bath."

"Thank you. That'll really help."

Blythe disappeared into the bathroom. Greg waited until he heard the water running before he attempted to stand. As usual, his leg rejected weight. On a normal day he would have space to fall toward the bed or the chair and catch himself. But today he was trapped between the sofa and the coffee table with pretty much nowhere to go but down.

"Ow! He shouted as his shin smacked the low table, knocking his balance forward. He put his hands out to break his fall with only nanoseconds to decide how best not to break his neck.

Well, he succeeded in not killing himself, but not without some bruising. Blythe came running into the living room not sure what she would find. The verbal outburst and the thud told her he fell over, but not how bad it was.

She reached the sofa and peered over it. Her son was splayed on his back across the coffee table, his lower right leg bent so his foot was on the ground. "Greg, are you okay?"

"Uh huh. Just another day in paradise."

"Do you need help up?"

He winced at the offer. "No. I'm just going to lay here for a few minutes. It's kind of comfortable actually."

"Stop trying to be a superhero. I know you're not infallible."

"Gee, thanks, Mom."

She situated herself in front of him and extended her hand.

"There's no way you can -"

"Gregory, I may be old, but I am not decrepit."

"If you say so." He reached out to her, pulling his weight forward. Greg didn't have to do much as mom was stronger than he expected.

"I'm going to have to start calling you Super Mom."

"How else are superheroes born?"

While Greg soaked in the tub, Blythe rummaged around the kitchen. She was in the mood to make a big breakfast, but Greg's cupboards were pretty much barren. She found a piece of paper and pen and started making out a grocery list.

She listened for him getting out of the tub, worried that he'd fall again. Here it was just over twelve hours since she arrived and her nerves were already jangled. Had she known her son suffered like this daily, she would have doted on him more.

And he would have hated her for it. He was right in thinking it was better this way. John would have chastised her for molly-coddling the boy. It was bad enough he thought Greg was soft. If he'd known it was this bad, who knows how he would have handled it. As it was, he felt Greg got off easy with just the infarction. Had he stepped on a land mine, well that would have been something to brag about. Greg's infirmity made John uncomfortable when they were together in a room. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife.

Greg returned to the kitchen dressed and ready to face the day. "What are you thinking about?" He liked that she was smiling.

"I was thinking about your dad."

"Oh." A touchy subject still.

"Don't be such a sore head. You may not have liked him much, but he was my husband."

"I don't want to argue about it. You know how I feel. I know how you feel. Let's just agree to differ."

"Fair enough. I'm going to get ready. Then we can head out for breakfast and some shopping."

"I've got milk and cornflakes," he turned following her progress as she left the room.

"It's more like sour cream and CORNFLAKE." She was laughing.

He joined in. Then he pulled out a trash bag and cleaned out the fridge. He found her list on the counter and started adding to it. Greg wanted to cook her a special dinner, now more than ever. I was bad enough she thought he was incapable of feeding himself. His work schedule was so erratic that keeping fresh food around wasn't an option. Canned soup and peanut butter sandwiches were the staples.

They ate breakfast at a little mom and pop coffee shop a few blocks from Greg's apartment. He wanted to walk there, but mom insisted they drive. He conceded by handing her his helmet and mounting the bike. She laughed and tossed the helmet back. They were having fun teasing each other. It was something they hadn't done since he was a boy and his father was out of the country. Of course the fun and games ended as soon as dad came home. But not this time.

Blythe offered to drive them to the store, but Greg felt it would be better if he drove since he was a terrible back seat driver and even more horrendous at giving directions.

"I don't remember making such a long list," she commented. "You're either very hungry or you have something delicious in store for me."

"Both," he said as they entered the store and he grabbed a shopping cart.

"Where do we start?"

"I like to go backwards. It throws everyone off."

"Good thinking, but won't the frozen foods melt?"

"If I start at the produce aisle, then everything gets squashed by the canned goods."

"And Lord knows, there's nothing worse than a ten pound canned ham on your strawberries," she said sarcastically.

"You've watched me shop before," he said with mock glee.

"Like mother, like son."

They laughed together as Greg led them to the meat section. "If I can't find the right cut of meat, there's no sense in getting the corresponding extras."

Blythe stood by watching her son haggle for a good piece of beef. It was quite amusing to see him deliberate over two particularly good choices. That was until the customer before him chose the piece he wanted.

Greg's impatience was growing. The woman decided to strike up a conversation with the butcher about how a prime piece of meat should look.

"I don't know, what do you think?" She just couldn't make up her mind.

"Either piece is good."

"Okay, I'll go with the one on the left."

Greg stepped up, unable to stand it any longer. "Oh no, you don't want that one," he said simpering.

"Really?"

"Definitely. A good cut should have about a quarter inch of fat around it. You also want some fat marbled throughout for tenderness and flavor."

She turned her back on Greg, who glared at the butcher to keep his mouth shut. The customer was still hemming and hawing when Greg pulled out a twenty dollar bill.

"He's absolutely right. This is the perfect piece for you." The butcher pulled out the inferior roast and quickly wrapped it up for her. He was eager to help his next customer.

House stepped up to the counter. "I'll take the one I talked her out of."

The butcher smiled slyly. He wrapped the meat and exchanged the package for the twenty in Greg's hand.

"Thank you," House looked at his name tag, "Eddie. A pleasure doing business with you."

"You're brutal," Blythe teased as they walked away.

"I'd like to think of it as being a shrewd businessman," he said lightly.

They looked at each other and started laughing again.

"Now we can head for produce. Some baby carrots, new potatoes, green beans -"

"Are those in season?"

"We'll probably have to hit the frozen food section next."

"What's for desert?"

"Uh, hadn't thought about that."

"Let me make it." Blythe walked away leaving her son with the vegetables.

Greg finished his selections that would accompany his pot roast. Before he could wonder what his mother was up to, she returned setting a box in the cart.

"Oh Mom, I always thought you were keeping a secret from me. Now I know. You're Mrs. Smith."

"My secret's out. How can I go on?" She put the back of her hand to her forehead in stereotypical soap opera fashion.

"Don't give up just yet. You still have to get it in the oven."

"I don't know if I can handle that. However will I manage." Her voice took on a southern drawl.

Greg laughed in spite of himself. It was a side of his mother he'd never seen before. It was almost as if he'd never really known her.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

By the time the groceries were bagged and paid for, Greg's leg was achy. He had already spent more time on it shopping than he usually did an entire weekend. Blythe did not miss the fact that he was limping a little heavier. They shared the duty of putting the bags in the trunk.

"Just think, you wanted to ride the motorcycle."

"What was I thinking?" He rolled his eyes.

"Let me drive home." She took the keys out of the trunk lock.

Greg snatched them out of her hand. "Please don't baby me. I'm fine."

"Okay, cranky puss. Just trying to be nice."

He gave her a look that said if she wasn't he mother, he'd have a lot more to say. If his pain level was in direct correlation to his irritability, the rest of the day was sure to be a barrel of fun. She'd have to figure out a way to get him to slow down and relax when they got home.

"I'm making a cup of herbal tea. I need to sit down and relax. Do you want some?" Blythe finished putting away the last of the groceries while her son channel surfed.

"Yeah, sure. Why not?" Greg had an inkling his mother's suggestion was more for his benefit than her own.

She entered the living room handing him a steeping mug of blood red tea. He looked into the cup wondering exactly what was in there.

"Yum, hot blood."

"Don't be silly. Drink it, you'll like it," she promised.

He continued to contemplate it. After a few more moments he looked up to see her sipping her tea while staring over the rim watching him.

"Mom, if I look in your luggage, am I going to find the traveling shovel of death?" He raised one eyebrow in mock suspicion.

"What's a traveling shovel of death?"

"Sit back and relax while I spin the tale of the Legend of the Traveling Shovel of Death.

"Long ago and once upon a time there was a writing competition set up in the month of November. The participants were challenged by the Office of Letters and Light to write a fifty thousand word novel in thirty days.

"You would think it an easy task; however, that would not be so. In the quest to write nearly two thousand words a day, many authors sought any methods available to create conflict in their plot-less, point-less writing endeavors.

"The most famous literary device given birth to was The Traveling Shovel of Death. Who would have thought such an innocent gardening tool could take on a life of its own and gain a thirst for the macabre.

"Primarily a weapon of destruction, the shovel has been used in every way from an innocent vehicle to perpetrate an accidental homicide to an evil instrument of torture. Since its inception, the Traveling Shovel of Death has garnered a taste for blood."

Blythe stared at her son with great consternation. "Don't know about any shovel; but there is a possibility for a trowel."

Greg burst out laughing. He had always wondered where he got his weird sense of humor. Obviously from her; although he was sure it laid repressed and dormant during her years with John House.

"The red comes from the hibiscus flower. It bleeds out of the petals."

"Ah! I'm drinking hot flower juice," he cried with exasperation.

"Would it be better if it was a potion made with the Trowel of Death?"

Greg was giddy with renewed laughter. The muscles of his face were starting to get sore from overuse. He couldn't remember when he last laughed so much.

"I'm glad you're here, Mom," he sighed with contentment.

"I'm glad we're spending this time together."

Dinner consisted of a quick preparation of seasoned meat and vegetables roasted in a pan and slow cooked. During the last hour, Blythe "Mrs. Smith" House put her frozen cherry pie on a baking tray and popped it on the lower rack under the roasting pan.

Greg spent the last hour digging out decent dishes and silverware that hadn't been used in quite a while. He washed and dried them setting the center island like a cozy table for two.

"Not bad, for a bachelor," Blythe said admiring her son's ability to put on a good spread. "You're liable to get yourself a girlfriend if you want one."

Greg didn't miss the hint. He rolled his eyes but took it all in stride. "Cooking is just as much about presentation as it is concocting edible flavor creations."

His meal did not disappoint. If Blythe had been able to cook this well, who knows what man she would have snagged before John House came along. Her mother had always told her the way to a man's heart was through his stomach.

But then her whole future would have changed. Greg would not have been born, and the world would be less one brilliant, albeit eccentric, doctor. No matter what mistakes were made in the last fifty years, the world was a much better place with him in it; whether he believed it or not.

"Why do you look so sad?" Greg's voice swam across the chasm of silence.

"I could count myself a queen of infinite space and still be bound in a nutshell."

Greg's eyes widened with surprise. She was paraphrasing Shakespeare's Hamlet. Was it some sort of cryptic clue about her infidelity that resulted in his birth? Did she liken him to the brooding Dane?

"You're over thinking it."

"What," he said blinking several times.

"I was thinking how a butterfly could flap its wings and consider itself the king of Central Park."

"You're scaring me."

"Don't worry, I'm not going senile."

"Not hardly with remembering quotes like that," he could barely contain his enthusiasm.

"I did go to college, you know."

"You did? Where?"

"Vassar."

"Why didn't I know that?"

She sighed, already sorry she brought it up. "Your father didn't think it was really an important accomplishment. All I needed to be was a house wife and a mother."

He opened his mouth, about to say something negative no doubt. Blythe acknowledged his need to say something, but her look conveyed a weariness that begged him to leave it unsaid. Greg complied, turning his dig against John House into a crooked smile.

Their next confrontation came just before bedtime. Greg was preparing the sofa for himself when his mother came in and planted herself right in the middle.

"What are you doing?" He looked like a matador, the sheet in mid expansion as he snapped it out to be spread across the couch.

"I'm taking the couch," she said with her arms folded across her chest in defiance.

"No you're not."

"Greg, stop being chivalric and take your damn bed back."

"I can't let you sleep on the sofa."

"And I can't let you suffer another sleepless night and torturous morning just because you're too proud."

"Stop pitying me." He was getting angry.

"Stop talking back to your mother. You're never too old to be punished." The minute she said it, she regretted it. The look in her son gave her broke her heart.

House set down with the sheet, stunned by his mother's words. "Good night, Mother." His voice held no emotion as Greg gimped his way to his room.

Blythe gave him a few moments as she shed tears. For most of his formative years she had turned a blind eye to the abusive punishment her husband doled out on their son. Very rarely did she get involved or take Greg's side. Many times she questioned why after the fact. Was she afraid John would later take it out on her? Perhaps she feared it would make her son's punishment all that more severe. Her only real excuse was that she was a product of her era. By the time she had the courage to say or do anything, Greg was a grown man and the damage was done.

She chose to splash cold water on her face from the kitchen faucet. This way she wouldn't have to pass him by on the way to the bathroom before going in to talk to him. Blythe stood in the doorway just watching him. Greg was sitting up, propped against pillows; his glasses precariously perched on his nose, reading. For the first time she realized he was prematurely old. The grey mixed in the chestnut brow hair gave him a distinguished look. Yet the grey unevenly interspersed throughout his beard and mustache made him look grizzled.

He looked up over the rim of his spectacles at his mother staring at him.

She cleared her throat. "I'm sorry. It was insensitive of me to say that."

Greg pretended he wasn't fazed by it. "No need for an apology. You didn't mean anything by it."

"It upset you."

There was no arguing with her. "Only for a few minutes. I'm over it."

"Greg, please don't let one error in judgment undo everything we shared today or what we might share in the future."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

Blythe had chosen to take a midday flight home so she could partake of her Sunday evening ritual and give Greg some alone time before his work week began. After last night's faux pas, she had no regrets. However, Greg woke up feeling good and having forgiven and forgotten. They were able to just hang out and do nothing, which her son assured her was his usual weekend routine. He confessed that due to his bouts of insomnia, he was usually asleep until the twelve bells of noon, so to speak.

At the airport she wished she could spend a few more hours with him. Their time together only made her sad to think about the wasted years they spent estranged.

"We haven't talked at all about Thanksgiving," she thought aloud. "I do hope you'll come. I loved spending time with you." She reached up to hug him.

Greg hunched over to hug her back. "As long as we get to have some good times like we did this weekend, I guess I can suffer through it."

"You'll be fine," she smiled, caressing his stubble covered cheek.

He kissed her good-bye watching her head to security.

"And Greg," she called over her shoulder, "you might consider shaving."

He chuckled while rolling her eyes.

At seven o'clock House was settled in for the night. He sat on the couch in his sleep pants and a t-shirt watching his favorite show on Tivo. He was absently shoveling spoonfuls of cornflakes into his mouth while watching the moron on television playing with power tools.

The phone rang. He assumed it was his mother calling to tell him she had gotten home safely. His hand left the spoon reaching over for his cell.

"Greg House." He felt funny announcing himself to his mother.

"House!" Wilson was glad his friend answered. "What are you doing?"

"Watching porn with my mom," he answered matter-of-factly.

"Aaah, too much information."

"You're such a pussy, Jimmy."

"I take it your mother left already?"

"Would I be talking like this if she were here?"

"You'd be gagging from the soap she'd use to wash out your mouth."

"So how was your weekend?"

"Not as interesting as yours, I'm sure." Wilson was dying to hear all the details.

"My mother is a natural born comedienne."

"That bad, huh?" It sounded to James like the two of them would be eating Chinese again for Thanksgiving.

"No, I'm serious. I've discovered I get my sense of humor from her." Greg was enjoying his friend's floundering on the other end.

"You think that's a good thing?" Wilson was bewildered.

House laughed. "She's a riot. We're going to have a blast in L.A."

"So you're going?" James' spirits deflated.

"Don't be so glum, Jimmy. There's still time to meet someone on the internet and get invited to dinner."

"Ha, ha." He was silent for a few seconds. "Maybe I'll call Bonnie and see what she has planned."

"Ooh, that's not good." House made a sour face.

"You think it's a bad idea?"

"No, the guy on the Yankee Workshop just poked a flat head screw driver through palm of his hand."

"What channel is that on?"

"I Tivo'd it so I can watch it over and over."

"You're sick." Wilson was disgusted.

"That's what I keep telling myself, but people keep telling me otherwise."


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Sunday morning dawned way too early for any civilized person. Greg actually got up before the sun. If you could call laying in bed tossing and turning for hours sleeping; then yes, he 'woke up'. Customarily an overnight flight was considered a red-eye, but today it was the six a.m. flight across the country. He dressed as quickly as possible, unable to soak in a hot bath this morning for lack of time. A glance at his watch informed him the taxi was probably outside waiting. He donned his motorcycle jacket, slung his book bag over his shoulder, readied his cane and proceeded to drag his luggage out into the hall before locking the door.

The cabbie had been here to take him to the airport before. He didn't hesitate to take the valise and satchel to the car so that House was free to negotiate the stairs unencumbered. The ride to Newark took no time at all considering the roads were deserted at this god forsaken hour.

The taxi pulled right up to the terminal in front of the sky cap. Greg extracted himself while the hack pulled out his luggage. Greg nodded his thanks, tipping the guy. He then hobbled over to the counter to check in his roll along. Since he was taking advantage of his handicap, he kept the knapsack with him.

A tired old man, who looked like he needed the wheelchair more than House, walked across the lobby towards him. Greg took the seat feeling a little foolish.

At security he handed over his boarding pass and drivers' license. Being in a wheelchair made going through the TSA checkpoint twice as tough. He tossed his cane and pack on the conveyor belt. He toed off his shoes placing them in the plastic bin along with the contents of his pockets and his belt.

He was waved through the metal detector. Aggravated by the whole process, he played up the limp and headed through. The lights flashed red as the alarms went off.

"Crap," he mumbled, backing through. He patted his pockets, then realized he still had his watch on. He removed it and noticed his jacket had some metal too. He shrugged it off, tossing it on the conveyor belt.

The TSA agent beckoned him to walk through again.

Greg held his hand over his thigh and gimped through the metal frame as red lights and alarms went off again.

"Spread your legs, arms out to your side."

"Which one of you is going to pick me up off the floor when I fall down?"

The female agent stifled a giggle.

Greg assumed a modified version of 'the position'. Thankfully it was a male running the wand around his body. The female was kind of cute and he was afraid his body would betray him.

The wand emitted a high-pitched scream in the area around his hips.

"What the hell?"

"Turn out your pockets, please."

House struggled to comply. There was nothing in them.

"Sir, I'm going to have to pat you down."

"Like hell you are."

Two more guards showed up.

"If you want to get on a plane, you're going to have to comply."

"Do I have to be humiliated in public?"

"We can step over to the room on the left."

"I need my cane."

"You'll have to leave it outside the room," the agent warned.

"As long as you're taking responsibility for any injuries suffered from me falling down…"

"We'll take care of you."

"That's what I'm afraid of," House grumbled.

He was sure this would be a waste of time as they frisked him. By request he was allowed to stand up against the wall facing it with his hands at shoulder width, supporting him.

The cockier of the male agents started on the left leg making House a little nervous. "Take it easy on the right. I've got a bad leg."

The guys eyed each other with suspicion.

Greg hissed with pain an annoyance as hands groped his mangled thigh. "Hey!"

"Drop your pants."

"What?" Greg's hands left the wall as he turned to face them.

A taller agent pushed him up against the wall. "Steady there."

"Fuck me! You guys are man handling me and then telling me to drop trou'."

The other agent got on his radio. "We have a 10-66 at the Delta Terminal, Room one-eleven."

"Yeah, get your supervisor here. My civil rights are being violated," House raged.

"Every passenger has a right to their safety."

"What about my safety? I'd like you to put every passenger through this."

The door opened revealing a very military looking presence. Greg stumbled backward, sliding slightly down the wall.

"What's the problem?" He glared at the passenger.

"These guys felt me up, then ordered me to take off my pants," House said defiantly.

"You've got a problem with that?"

"I've got a big problem with that."

"Are you hiding something."

"Sort of," Greg swallowed nervously. Before he could do or say anything else, hands were dragging him back up the wall."

For a moment he saw his father standing before him when the guard called out "Strip search him."

"Don't touch me," he bellowed and began thrashing. The door crashed open and two more guards entered. The last thing he needed was reinforcements.

"Get your hands off of him," the female yelled to be heard over his panicked shouting. She pulled a chair over and offered it to the passenger. Greg was dropped into it. "You guys get out."

House leaned over with his head between his knees in order to combat his dizziness and nausea.

The female agent glared at the surveillance camera in the corner. "Sir, I'm going to need to pass the wand over your hips again. When you can, would you please stand." She waited patiently while never taking her eyes off of Mr. Military.

House stood shakily, leaning heavily on the chair. The woman swept the wand at hip level. The mechanism beeped. Greg hung his head in frustration.

"If you could, please unzip our pants and peel the waist band over. You can show him." She turned her back giving him some privacy. She heard the zipper sliding down. "Sir," she said, addressing her superior, "if you look closely, this particular brand of jeans uses a reverse rivet to secure the seams of the front pockets."

"So it does," he said barely looking at the victim.

"I think we can excuse him now."

"Fair enough," he grunted and left the room.

"Thank-you." Greg's voice caught in his throat.

She continued to avoid looking at him until he finished zipping his pants. "I can't excuse what they did, just how they went about it." She opened the door and retrieved his cane.

Greg snatched it from her. The sky cap rushed over with the chair. Greg still had to return to the scanners and pick up everything else.

The sky cap delivered him to the hands of the Boarding Crew. Because of the delays at security, there was only a brief wait to board. Greg was brought via wheelchair up the jet way to the plane's hatch. There a flight attendant took his backpack while he hobbled his way into first class.

"Your seat is on the left inside. Would you like me to stow your carry-on or hang your jacket?"

Greg shrugged out of the leather. She helped him out of it and waited for him to take his seat. He reached out for his pack.

"Can I get you something to drink?"

"Scotch," he sighed heavily. "Make it a double."

She disappeared to prepare his drink. He was thankful she didn't question him. His nerves were shot and they hadn't even taxied to the runway yet. He was hoping the two drinks would help him doze off once they were in the air.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Greg managed to relax enough to enjoy his ipod and doze for an hour or so. He was remiss to have to get up and stretch a bit as his leg cramped. He chose to walk the length of the plane and use the back bathroom after clearing it with the first class crew.

This didn't sit well with a few of the passengers in coach. In fact, they thought it was downright odd. He had passed two perfectly usable lavatories. On his way back to first class he garnered many strange looks. He couldn't resist ogling them back.

Once back in first class the atmosphere lightened. Greg returned to his seat and settled back in. A man from the back of the plane entered the cabin and nodded almost imperceptibly to the flight attendant. He took the empty seat next to Greg.

House glanced at his sideways. That was enough to get the guy talking. Greg pulled out his headphones, pretending he was tired of listening.

"I said do you have a problem with the bathrooms up here?"

This was turning into the day from hell. "No, I'm sure they're perfectly fine."

"Why did you choose the one in back?"

"Are you the toilet police?"

"Federal Air Marshall."

Greg pressed the overhead button calling for the attendant.

"Is there a problem, Mr. House?"

"I need another double."

She turned away, but he called after her. "And could you please tell the air marshal to go back to his own seat. He's bothering me."

"You didn't answer my question, Mr. House."

"I have a bad leg. If I don't get up and move around a bit, the pain becomes unbearable."

The flight attendant returned with the cocktail. "Would you like a little something to eat with that?"

"Sure, some lightly buttered toast and a cup of tea might do the trick."

"You don't think it's a little early to be drinking?" The marshal was concerned.

Greg looked at him haughtily. "This isn't my first, and it won't be my last before this flight is over."

"If you have issues with flying, you should probably choose a different form of transportation," the marshal suggested.

"I have no issues with flying. Airport security and air marshals, however..."

"Let me tell you a little bit about how we-"

"Profile? Do tell, because in a week I'll be flying back and I have no desire to be harassed again."

"Believe it or not, canes, crutches and the like are suspect. Terrorists and drug smugglers like to use the potentially hollowed out spaces for the transport of illegal substances.

"Also, you grabbed your thigh when you walked through the metal detector."

"How do you know all this?'' Greg was flabbergasted.

"Why do you think I'm on this flight?"

"You're spying on me?"

"One of the agents felt a difference in your legs."

"In case you haven't noticed, I have a disability. Since you're not a doctor, I don't expect you to fully understand. I do, however, expect you to respect my privacy. What do I have to do, carry a doctor's note to get you guys off my back?"

"It's a start."

Greg reached into his pocket, extracted his wallet and took out a business card. He proceeded to write: I HAVE A BUM LEG. PLEASE EXCUSE ME FROM SECURITY CHECKS on the back of it. "Here ya go."

The marshal took it, flipped it over and laughed. "You're a doctor?"

"As a matter of fact, I am. My wife is a constitutional law attorney. Should I call her?" He reached into his book bag and withdrew his cell phone.

The marshal chuckled. Now he understood why the passenger had been so irate with security. "You have a nice remainder of your flight," he nodded to House, then got up and laughed.

Somewhere over the western states Greg was jolted awake. He was disoriented, having fallen into a deep sleep once the feds were off his case. Yet he wasn't sure what exactly woke him at this point.

The aircraft seemed to be bouncing a bit as they experienced some turbulence. The familiar bing-bong of the intercom system alerted passengers of an upcoming announcement. The speakers crackled and the captain's voice boomed throughout the plane.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are experiencing some turbulence and suggest you remain seated with your seatbelts fastened as we attempt to decrease our altitude to avoid the bumps. Flight attendants, all cabin service is suspended until further notice. Please take your seats."

Things were moving along fairly well for a plane load of panicked people. Greg put his headphones back on to avoid his mumbling fellow passengers. He wasn't prepared for the sudden drop through space or the oxygen masks popping out of the overhead compartments.

That's when the screaming began. Greg turned up the volume on his ipod as the plane bumped and dipped. All he could do was sit back and make the best of the rollercoaster ride.

It seemed to last about twenty minutes. The pilot must have announced that it was safe for the flight attendants to move about the cabins as there was a general flurry of activity that followed. Greg was nonplussed by it. At least he was until the flight attendant tapped him on the shoulder.

He rolled his eyes without even opening them. "Can I help you?" The headphones were abandoned with great ceremony.

"We have passengers with injuries that need tending to."

"I assume you've all be trained in first aid." He was annoyed at the further disruption to his trip.

She was apologetic and understood the inconvenience it represented and so far had suffered. "The air marshal requested you take a look at one of them."

Greg stood up. Pausing to catch his equilibrium. "Two hours ago half the people aboard this plane thought I was some kind of terrorist. Now they all want me to kiss their boo-boos."

He followed the attendant to the next cabin and stopped in shock. "What happened?"

This part of the plane looked like a cyclone had hit. The people who weren't stunned were helping put luggage back into the overhead compartments.

"Any serious injuries?"

"Just this one lady. She has a head injury and we'd like you to take a look at her."

The air marshal was sitting in the seat next to a little silver-haired old lady. He was holding a compress to the side of her head.

"What happened?"

The marshal addressed him over his shoulder. "She got clipped by a carry on. There's a gash by her temple. The bleeding seems to be slowing, but I'm afraid she might have a concussion. Could you give her a look-see?"

"I'll need a flashlight and your first aid kit."

He traded seats with the marshal. "Let's see what we got."

The old woman watched him, a tad bit wary. From the way he moved, he seemed worse for the wear and possibly in need of medical attention himself.

Greg sat down and immediately began to tend to the head wound. He peeled the bloody gauze away. It didn't look too bad. "I'm going to clean this up."

He took a sterile pad out of the kit and soaked it in a liquid, anti-bacterial solution. "This might sting a bit."

She winced, but more from the anticipation than from any pain caused by the wound.

"Can you tell me your name?"

"Margaret."

"Where you headed, Margie?" Greg traded off the first aid supplies for the

flashlight.

"I see you're not married." She seem disoriented,

"Look straight ahead for me." House checked her pupils. Everything looked normal. "Yep. I'm a free agent."

"Arizona," she said while he held her wrist.

"Do you know what day it is?"

"Of course I do. I may be old, but I'm not senile."

Greg chuckled. "Humor me."

"Sunday, November twenty first, two thousand ten."

"How's your vision? Any cloudiness or blurriness?"

"About as good as can be for eighty-four."

"Any headache? Neck stiffness?"

"Nope."

House swapped the flashlight for the first aid kit. He rummaged through looking specifically for steri-strips. He found a couple, then handed the box back to the flight attendant.

"I'm going to put some butterfly stitches over your cut and tape you back together. When you reach your destination, go to the nearest emergency room. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred. You might need a few sutures to close that up permanently. And an f-MRI wouldn't be a bad idea either."

Margaret was finally able to pull away from his deep blue eyes. "Do you think it's serious?"

"I think you're as sharp as a tack. The study of your brain could yield the cure for Alzheimer's."

She patted his hand, flustered by his comments.

"Margie, if I didn't have an albatross already hanging around my neck, you could be my cougar." He winked at her while giving a lecherous grin.

She flushed as he excused himself.

The trip through the now calming chaos back to first class reminded him to make a mental note to thank his mom about the flight arrangements. He might not have survived the flight if he were trapped in business class or coach.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

The plane landed in Arizona only to have final destination passengers and those with injuries requiring further medical attention deplane. More passengers boarded, bound for the short flight to L.A.X. The rest of the flight was, thankfully, uneventful.

The drive from the runway to the terminal at L.A.X. was quite a wonder. It seemed the landing strip was in one zip-code with the terminal in another. Many planes were taking off and landing. Those taxiing were caught in stop and go intervals as they crossed various numbered tarmacs, simulating a freeway full of rush hour traffic - only with varying makes and models of planes instead of cars. He wondered if the endless drive to the terminal caused the aircrafts' tires to have to be changed more frequently.

At the gate there were many first-aid personnel waiting to help the remaining injured passengers. Greg decided to exit last to avoid the gawker's block and back up that he assumed was happening. The flight from hell was finally over, and he couldn't wait to get to his hotel and into a hot bath before collapsing into bed.

A sky cap was waiting just inside the jet way for him. He took a seat and let the worries of the day go. At least he thought he did. The foot traffic in the terminal was like trying to navigate Times Square on New Year's Eve. Thank god he wasn't trying to hoof his way through it. And even more luckily, his wheelchair driver navigated the corridors like a true New York cabbie.

By the time they reached the luggage carousel, the ground crew had emptied the belly of the plane and chucked it all on the appropriate conveyor belt. His case came whizzing by before he remembered to tell his handler what it looked like. On the second round it was snatched up and they were on their way.

They only went about ten feet before he saw it. There was a man in a black suit and tie holding up a sign with his name on it! "That's me," he pointed at the guy, indicating the sky cap should head that way.

"Mr. House? Welcome to Los Angeles," the chauffeur said, taking the valise from the sky cap. They followed him out to where a Town car was parked.

House thanked his wheelchair driver with a generous tip, then transferred himself out of the chair. The chauffeur held open door and into the back seat.

"This is way cool." he said smiling as the car pulled out.

Unlike the traffic jam of L.A.X., the 405 was a downright cluster fuck. House was happy he didn't have to navigate the rolling parking lot in a rental car. Between the idiotic drivers going anywhere from a snail's pace to hyper-space, and the outrageous amount of construction taking place, he was surprised that there wasn't a ten-car pile-up every mile.

Traffic slowed considerably as they rode northbound. The 405-10 split seemed to be confusing the drivers as those in the left lane wanted to merge onto the 10 and needed to move right. This was further compounded by the drivers in the right lanes failing to merge left for their straight drive continuing on the 405. To further complicate matters, there seemed to be a problem on the top of the ramp onto the 10 as traffic stood still. To House, everyone was going nowhere in a big hurry.

It wasn't until they departed the freeway onto Sunset Boulevard did the atmosphere change. He had an urge to sing out: "Sunset Boulevard" and announce that he was ready for his close-up, but quickly suppressed it. He was enjoying being on a roadway lined with greenery and expansive property fronts. Coming up on his right was UCLA's northern gate with the Bruin's football field in plain view. At the intersection of Glendon, while stopped at a traffic light, he saw the gates to Bel-Air.

A little further east and the famous keystone sign of Beverly Hills greeted them. Within ten minutes his mind went from Norma Desmond to the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, to the Beverly Hillbillies. They came to one of the strangest intersections he had ever seen. Sunset Boulevard, Benedict Canyon, Hartford Way, Canon Drive and Rodeo Drive all met. The Town car meant to turn left onto either Benedict Canyon or Hartford Way. He wasn't sure. All he knew was that behind the foliage, nestled in the delta made by those two roads was THE Beverly Hills Hotel. There was no mistaking its pink façade with its weathered green cupolas sporting the flags of the US, Mexico and California. The palatial hotel had seen many owners and many deals made over the century. Most recently it was owned by the Sultan of Brunei under the name Sajahtera, Inc.

"Greetings of well-being," Greg mumbled, thinking about how much he was going to enjoy himself here.

A flurry of activity occurred as the car he was riding in cued up with the other limousines of various makes and models. Doormen rushed to the car, opening his door and bidding him welcome to this paradise. Another grabbed his luggage, including the back pack, and escorted him into the hotel, through the lobby and to the front desk.

He looked around at the splendor so far. "Yes, I believe palace life is going to suit me just fine."

After check-in, he was given a valet to accompany him to his room and do the unpacking. At first Greg was a little uncomfortable. He felt underdressed and downright shabby compared to the clientele that probably stayed here. Yet no one seemed to care, let alone treat him like a leper. He guessed it was considered 'shabby chic.'

The bellman opened the door. Both he and the valet waited for Greg to enter. He gimped in, stopping in awe at the size of the room. It was, in a word, magnificent.

"Would sir like turndown service?"

Greg nodded to the valet. "I'll be taking a nap after a hot bath."

"Very good, Sir." The valet disappeared into another room. House could hear the water running in the tub. He did the necessary thing to make the bellman go away. At the rate he was tipping everyone, he might have to hit Wilson up for a loan when he got back.

The valet returned and began unpacking the case. Greg was relieved he didn't pack anything embarrassing.

"Your room as a lovely view of the pool. We have several fine dining establishments downstairs as well as twenty-four hour room service catered by the Polo Lounge. The pool is open sunrise to sunset.

"We have three types of wake up service: telephone, at the door or in person."

House raised a suspicious eyebrow as he sat at the small table overlooking the view.

"Just call down to the front desk. They will arrange for a phone call, a knock at the door, or a gentle shake of the shoulder, no matter what time of day."

Greg exaggerated a blink. This guy wasn't kidding. While he let all the information sink in, the valet disappeared into the bathroom. The faucets were silenced. He couldn't resist staying away any longer.

"For your convenience, your linens and complimentary robe and slippers have been laid out. Enjoy your bath and have a pleasant nap." He shut the door after backing out.

House barely registered anything the man servant said. His eyes were bulging at the size of the bath tub, if you could call it that. It was more like a personal-sized pool. Greg wasn't sure if he should put on his swim trunks or get in naked.

After stripping down and neatly placing his clothes on the bench provided, Greg slipped into the steamy water. "Aah," he sighed, submerging up to his neck. The drama of earlier that day melted away with his aching muscles.

It was a little after one, local time, when he called his mother to tell her he had arrived. She wanted to meet up with him right away. He explained that it had been a rough flight after a sleepless night and very early morning. All he wanted was a few hours of sleep.

Between hanging up with mom and resting his head on the pillow, Greg called down to Guest Services. He opted for the 'gentle shaking' wake up call. That way he couldn't ignore it and go back to sleep.

He was woken up just as the sun was setting. He felt better; rested. Now he could 'officially' start his vacation. He popped open his cell to call his mom. She was staying a few days with Aunt Sarah, at least until Tuesday or Wednesday. Then she'd move into a hotel for the remainder of the time.

"Did you have a good nap?"

"Possibly the best sleep in ten years."

"So are you up for a visit?" Her voice carried much hope.

"Of course, that's why I'm here." Greg got up and looked in the mirror. Aside from a little bed head, he would be presentable once he put on some fresh clothes.

"Joanne made us dinner. We're all here relaxing, waiting to see you."

"Give me the address and I'll catch a cab."

"Are you sure? I'd be happy to come pick you up."

"Nah, this way you don't have to backtrack. I should be there within the hour."

When the cab headed east on Sunset it took about a mile to leave the Beverly Hills City Limits and enter West Hollywood. House watched out the window as they passed the Roxy, Whiskey-A-GoGo and the Viper Room. The Strip was overwhelming with its traffic and bright lights. Nothing excited him more than seeing The House of Blues. That was one venue he definitely wanted to visit.

The Standard was just a little further down, then the Chateau Marmont. Soon they were turning left onto Laurel Canyon Boulevard where the street was dark and the glitz of it all was left behind. The hills loomed on either side; their manses dotting the night with small lights twinkling in their windows. Another left onto Lookout Mountain Road and meandering up the hill and they were finally snaking their way onto Ridgemont.

The street was steep and lightly treed allowing for a view of the San Fernando Valley. He left the car and headed to the front door. Blythe was waiting for him.

They hugged briefly before being led into the house. The back wall was a line of windows leading out to a deck. From the center of any room in the back there was an amazing view of the canyon below as well as the Hollywood Hills and the Mountains beyond.

"Gregory, you don't say hello to your Aunt Sarah?"

The voice was soft, like he remembered from so many years ago. He hadn't noticed her frail figure as she sat in the dim corner of the living room looking out at the same view that awed him.

"Aunt Sarah, is that really you?" His voice sounded phony even in his own ears. He didn't know how to approach her or if he even could.

"I'm not contagious, boy. Come closer and let me have a look at you."

Greg did as he was bidden. Auntie could be as formidable as her brother at times.

"You turned out handsome," she said, rising to greet him.

With a compliment like that, he was sure he could at least hug her. "So what brings you to Los Angeles?" He took a seat in the wingback chair next to hers.

"Something I can't pronounce. Auto-immunity complex something or other," she replied off-handedly.

Greg's eyebrows migrated north with surprise. "You have an auto-immune disease?"

"SLE, or something like that."

"You have Lupus?" Since in his cases it was never Lupus, he immediately formulated a theory that proclaimed her doctor to be an idiot.

"I'm responding well to the steroids. At least that's what they're telling me." She recognized the cogs turning behind his eyes, even if there was no smoke coming out of his ears. "And before you go all brilliant doctor on me, don't." She patted his hand and smiled warmly. "I'm an old woman. I don't want to live to be ninety, let alone one hundred. I'm comfortable and have made peace with the disease."

Greg nodded with understanding. He barely noticed that another woman had appeared in the sitting area. She set down a silver tray which held a glass decanter of some red liquid as well as a cheese and cracker tray.

"Dinner will be ready in about a half hour. Please help yourself."

"Greg, this is Joanne Johnston, our gracious hostess."

House stood, remembering his manners, and greeted her. She was short, barely coming to his mid chest, and chunky, but with curves in all the right places. When she smiled at him, it made her eyes sparkle. They were grey in this light, yet they hinted at possibly being bluer or greener.

"Welcome, Greg. Make yourself at home. We're very casual here."

"You have a spectacular view. I'm glad I'm seeing it at twilight. It always leaves a little mystery about the daytime."

"Feel free to go out on the deck and take a look at the sky as well. If you'll excuse me, I've got a table to set."

Greg kept smiling. He felt awkward, like a little kid in a strange and unfamiliar place. Maybe it was because he was the only representation of testosterone in the room.

"Can I help?" He asked feebly.

"You relax, I've got this." She waved him away. "But I'll take a rain check for Thursday."

"You bet." He backed off, returning to the living room.

"I wasn't expecting a home cooked meal," he confessed to his relatives.

"She slaughtered the beast yesterday and prepped him this morning," Blythe tossed out.

"She's a butcher?"

"No. Where'd you get that idea?"

"Slaughtered the beast," he said making air quotes with his fingers.

"Just an expression. JoJo's making Shepherd's Pie," Aunt Sarah chimed in.

"Ah. Where does one hunt down a shepherd in a city like this?"


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

Dinner was an interesting affair. Much like at the hotel, Greg was waited on hand and foot. Aunt Sarah and Jo were interested to learn more about him, assuming Blythe knew all there was to know. The three ladies each had their expectations of him.

Greg never liked giving speeches - let alone ones about himself. He didn't know what his mother had told them about her interpretation of his life. What did he feel comfortable about saying?

"I don't know what to tell you. I work at a hospital. That's pretty much my life."

"Do you have a specialty?" Joanne seemed genuinely curious.

"I'm dually boarded in Nephrology and Infectious Diseases."

"Do they necessarily have a direct correlation?"

"Not always. Individually, they have their pros and cons, but I wouldn't want to limit myself to either. So I run the Diagnostics Department at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital."

"So you're a professor!" Jo was excited to hear that.

"No exactly. I don't have a PhD or teach classes."

"Huh," she intoned with a hint of disappointment. Her enthusiasm was all but gone.

"Greg takes the cases that no one else can solve. He has a team of doctors who work with him," Blythe explained.

"Sorry, I lead a pretty boring life," he shrugged. "What do you do?"

"I was an Event Planner. I'm temporarily unemployed in this economy."

"You didn't plan Aon's last Christmas trip to Bermuda, by any chance."

"No, but before they froze his assets, I was hired to plan Bernie Madoff's going away party."

"Well, unemployment seems to be the trend across the country. Lucky for me people still get sick." He continued eating, really relishing in her cooking.

"Greg, don't you think that was a little bit insensitive?" Blythe was embarrassed. He managed to insult two of the three people with him at the table.

He inhaled deeply through his nose while rolling his eyes. He looked directly to Joanne, then to his aunt. "I'm not exactly the suave character you probably heard I was. My mouth runs faster than my brain sometimes." Jo's eyes were dark grey with green centers. He could see it as they bored into his own.

"Don't worry Blythe, he didn't mean anything by it. It's like admitting there are only two certainties in American life: death and taxes."

"Exactly." Greg was glad she wasn't upset.

"So what do you do for fun, Greg?"

"That's not really a word in my vocabulary," he admitted abashedly.

"Too bad. I was hoping we could all do something enjoyable in our time before Thanksgiving. I hear you haven't taken a vacation in a long time."

"No, I haven't. What did you have in mind?" Greg sat back patting his now full stomach. "THAT was excellent."

"Thank you." She got up and started clearing the table. "I'm not sure what you're up for. This is one of the only places where you can go surfing and snow skiing in the same day - hours apart, actually."

"I doubt Mom and Aunt Sarah are up for either," Greg said matter-of-factly.

"I have an appointment tomorrow and your mom's going to go with me. We thought you and Jo could spend some time together."

The look that Blythe gave Sarah did not go unnoticed by Greg. The moment of truth had revealed itself. This was a set up. He wondered if Joanne was in on it or an unwilling patsy. No. She was well aware it would be just the two of them. Hence her extreme sports suggestions. It only let him know that she hadn't been told he was a cripple.

"If you'd rather just do your own thing, that's okay too." Jo gave him an out when she returned to the table.

"Doing my own thing would require a lack of enthusiasm, staying in my jammies all day and lounging about in bed." He intentionally left out the part about watching porn. "I didn't fly all this way to do nothing."

"Well, there is a lot to do. Some of it requires a bit of walking." Joanne seemed to hesitate after speaking. Her plans of hiking the canyons, horseback riding, shopping and even the most basic of activities might prove difficult for him.

"The Pacific Ocean is one place I have to revisit. My friend Wilson would never forgive me if I didn't take advantage of that. He says the Atlantic is a bore."

"Good. That'll take a whole hour and a half; drive time included," Jo teased. "We could walk the Santa Monica Pier. Hang out at the Third Street Promenade."

"Sounds like a plan, I guess." Greg wasn't sure what he expected. Sight-seeing didn't sound like a bit of fun at this point. But what could he expect?

"We'll play it by ear. If you feel up to it, we'll go. If not, you can do what you'd like." Jo didn't sound upset at all. She understood his uneasiness. She just wanted to be a good hostess to her guests.

"What about Disneyland?" Aunt Sarah was enthusiastic.

"I didn't even think about that. 'The Happiest Place On Earth' is only an hour away."

Greg winced, making a face that frightened his own mother. He was holding back, a pressure building up in his chest. And then he realized it was because he was holding his breath. Greg exhaled forcefully, covering his face with his hands. He didn't want them to see the anguish he was feeling.

"What is it, Greg, what's wrong?" Aunt Sarah had never seen him try to censor himself. Evidently it wasn't a pretty sight.

Blythe found it funny. "My son gets a little melodramatic at times."

"I'm trying to be good," he confessed. But the inner turmoil he felt was like David Banner morphing into the Incredible Hulk.

"For goodness sakes, just say what's on your mind," Aunt Sarah begged.

In his most emotionless voice, yet with an apologetic look, he broke down. "I don't do happy." He put his head down where his plate had been, embarrassed and feeling like a little boy who had done wrong.

Joanne tried to stifle her laughter, but it slipped by her hand covered, pressed lips and out her nose in the form of a snort. She gave up all pretense of being lady-like after that. Her laughter was uncontrollable. It escalated in pitch as she slammed her hand down on the counter for emphasis.

It spread throughout the dining area like a contagion. Blythe and Sarah were giggling with a little more decorum than Jo. Greg couldn't figure out why they thought it was the most hysterical thing in the world.

Joanne's laughter grew exponentially, causing her to bend over and gasp for air between shrieks of hilarity. House wanted to feel slighted, but it was hard when he was smiling. By the time Jo was on the floor rolling around, holding her stomach and crying, Greg had begun to laugh. It became less about why she was laughing and more about the duration of her laughter that had them all going.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

Joanne picked Greg up at the hotel the following morning. He was up rather early, but figured it was the time difference, and he was actually up late. He wasn't sure what to wear, but went casual. They were going to the beach and it was a cool morning. He wasn't at all surprised it was her when the grey Prius pulled up.

"Good morning."

She was nauseatingly cheerful for morning. Greg was grinning in spite of thinking she was one of those dreaded 'morning people'. "Morning. What has you so happy so early?"

"The sun is up, it's mildly temperate, and I'm still alive."

"That last part's a clincher," he said buckling up.

"Always a good thing," she agreed. "We're off to the official coast."

The hybrid headed west on Sunset passing all of the sights Greg had seen on his way in yesterday. They crossed the 405 and drove a few miles before Greg had the nerve to say something.

"How far away is the ocean?"

"About twenty minutes, give or take."

"The maps make it look much closer."

"It really is. It's just the traffic and the stop lights eat up time." Jo concentrated on driving while Greg soaked up the sights. As they drove through Santa Monica he wondered what celebrities lived in the huge houses lining the boulevard. And then he saw it. Water as far as the horizon.

They came to the end of Sunset Boulevard at a cross road. Beyond were the beautiful palm trees with their trunks done up in a pineapple shape just below the fronds. There were benches for watching the sunset and walkways for strolling hand in hand. The giant wheel of the Santa Monica Pier and the rails of the rollercoaster could be seen. It still looked to still be a long distance away.

That's when Greg discovered they were quite a height above sea level. The downhill drive was short and revealed that the previous cross street was not the famous Pacific Coast Highway, like he thought it was. For a second or two he wished he had his motorcycle.

Joanne found parking. It was right on the beach, but still quite a haul for Greg to walk. She sensed his hesitation.

"Don't worry, we'll take it slow."

"That's a lot of sand."

"It's like the desert, it doesn't look like much, but once you're there, it seems endless."

They crossed the walkway in between skaters and bikers. Greg's first step into the sand was awkward. His cane sank a good six inches down, almost sending him face first into the quagmire.

"This probably wasn't such a good idea," he said flatly. Walking any further would be futile. He wouldn't make it to the water and didn't want to be stranded trying to get back.

"Maybe we should just head to the pier." Jo stepped ahead, holding out her hand for him to grab onto, since the cane was useless.

Normally he wouldn't trust anyone enough to depend on them, but he felt like he was slowly being sucked into the sand. It was much like quicksand and Joanne's hand was like the only vine he could reach that looked like it could hold his weight.

She dragged his tall, lanky frame out of the obstacle. He came out of the sand easily. They were on the walkway before both of them knew it. "We're home-free," Jo said as they took a few steps on solid ground. Greg didn't let go of her hand right away. The gesture did not go unnoticed between either of them.

They walked at his pace toward the pier. At every light post there was a long blue strip of paper posted. At a resting point, Greg pulled the notice down to read it.

"Notice of Filming." He turned it over and read the particulars. "They're filming something up there."

"This IS Los Angeles," she reminded him. "We might not get to see anything on the pier today."

"We can try," he winked.

She had the strange feeling he was going to stir up some mischief.

Surprisingly they were allowed to get pretty close to the action. They walked by a crowd of people who just seemed to stare at them. A few pulled out their cell phones and cameras to take their picture. And then chaos broke out.

The paparazzi appeared out of nowhere. Light bulbs were flashing. And many voices were shouting out a name. It almost sounded like they were saying 'I love you' at one point. He knew they couldn't possibly be referring to him. He didn't know these people, and if they had any clue as to who he was, they certainly would hate him.

It was obviously a case of mistaken identity. They called out to the two of them, referring to the non-couple as Hugh and Laurie.

Joanne dropped her hand from his quickly. He stopped and stared at her abrupt reaction to the crowd. The light bulbs flashed like mad.

"Damn, you do resemble him a bit." She started laughing.

"Him who?"

"Hugh Laurie. He's a British actor. He must be expected on set for this movie."

"For god sakes this is insane." He grabbed Joanne's hand and turned to walk away.

But a security guard stopped them. Soon there were four men surrounding the couple, escorting them towards the set. In all of the hubbub and to-do, all Greg and Joanne could do was look at each other with bewilderment.

"What do you think is going to happen when they discover I'm not him?" House leaned down and spoke out of the side of his mouth.

"I'd say get ready to run, but in your case…" She expected to see hurt in his eyes. Instead, he was smiling.

"Not my fault this Hugh's people are idiots. I'm the one being shanghaied. They aren't even giving us a chance to stop them."

"I bet he'll will be pissed when his security doesn't show up. He'll probably get eaten alive by these crazy people." Jo kept her head turned away from the nosy crowd.

Both of them were now tuned-in to the mob's shouts of "Hugh, I love you" and "Who's the woman?"

"Is this guy married?"

"Uh, more than likely. I think I remember reading somewhere his wife has a tendency to be a tad bit jealous."

"Well, if he's half as good looking as I am, he's going to get mauled."

"Stop it," Jo smacked him, and the cameras started snapping again.

"Watch this." Greg stopped, bent down, and placed a big kiss on Jo, then grabbed her hand. They were blinded by all the flash bulbs going off and deafened by the noise of the cheers and jeers.

"That was evil." Jo kept holding his hand. It was nice having him next to her. The kiss wasn't so bad either. Unfortunately it was just a charade. After all, he was handsome. And funny. When she thought he would stir up some trouble, she never had any idea he would take it this far.

They arrived on the pier and were greeted by the head of security. He stopped the entourage, pushing away the front man. He took one look at Greg, then looked over his shoulders at the movie star, who was talking to the director. There was a look of extreme confusion on his face.

"If he's him, who are you?"

"I'm him," House said casually.

"Wait here." The security guard put his hands out as if to create an invisible barrier. He then took a few steps backwards before turning around and heading towards the cast and crew.

Greg turned sideways. "I think the jig is up."

"Are you ready to run?" She winked.

"I think we should get on our knees and beg for mercy." He looked to the side. "Oh god, here they come."

Joanne watched as Greg tried to shrink into himself. He ducked his head down, bringing his shoulders up while slouching. Jo felt compelled to do just the exact opposite.

They were ten feet away when Greg looked up and over. The man he supposedly resembled looked aghast.

"Dear God, there's another one of me? Isn't one more than enough?" The vocal cadence was rhythmic but the accent definitely not American.

"No offence, dude, but we kinda got hijacked by your security detail."

They looked each other over carefully. Aside from being clean shaven, having a great amount of hair loss and being emaciating thin, the British guy could possibly pass for Greg. He definitely had a sense of style. They really didn't look that much alike, he thought.

"Uncanny," the director mumbled.

"And those idiots thought I was you," Greg pshawed.

"Great. I'll get served divorce papers in twelve hours."

"I've got an idea." The director pulled out his Flip and started filming. "If we can get you two together in a shot, she'll see that the two of them are definitely not you and someone else."

There seemed to be a sense of urgency in proving the Brit's innocence.

"I usually don't allow myself to be filmed. The Witness Relocation people at the FBI get touchy when my cover is blown."

Greg was surprised that the story just fell from his tongue. He was almost embarrassed that he said it. That was until the Brit and the director cracked up laughing. Jo, too, thought she would die of embarrassment until the laughter peeled.

"Would you mind? Help a bloke save his marriage and family?" Hugh appeared quite reserved, and the plea was sincere.

"Fine," Greg harrumphed. He took a step closer, leaning on his cane like it was a huge inconvenience for him to be standing there.

"Tell the nice camera your name."

Greg glared at him. "That's private. And I'm sure the media whores out there will catch wind of my name and then I'll be hounded."

"You think so?" Hugh was amused.

"You have no idea," Greg rolled his eyes.

Hugh chuckled, putting his arm around his doppelganger to prove it was not a set up shot.

"If I give you my name and you google it, I'd never hear the end of it. You, or someone you know, will one day need my services and then I'll never get you out of my office."

"That influential, are you?"

"Influential, no. In demand, yes." Greg pulled himself up to his full height, straightening out his coat sleeves as he did.

"Oh, for god sakes, Greg, just tell him!" Joanne pushed him aside. "He's a world renown doctor."

Greg clamped his hand across her mouth. "She's delirious. We'll just be going now."

Jo bit his hand.

"Ow, you minx!" He turned and apologized to the star and director. "We'll be leaving now. See ya!" Greg pushed his way past security with Joanne in tow.

"Slow down," she tugged his hand in the opposite direction.

"Are you trying to get me killed?"

"They're sending some security with us to get us through the maddening crowd."

"Let's give 'em another side show," Greg teased.

Jo stepped ahead of him. "No. We've caused enough trouble already."

Someone's arm nearly clothes-lined him. In the hand was an 8 x 10 glossy of Hugh Laurie and a Sharpie. House couldn't resist. He scribbled across the face in the picture, completely obscuring it with the name James Evan Wilson.

He didn't even look back to see the aftermath. "We should just get out of here and get lost before more trouble finds us."

Security didn't leave them until their car pulled out of the lot. It was daunting for Jo to navigate through the paparazzi, who just wouldn't let it go. Once on Pacific Coast Highway sped off north.

"Where are we going?"

"Will Rogers State Park. It's just a little ways up."

"Why we going there?"

"It's a short walk to the water." She took her eyes off the road just enough to gauge his reaction.

Greg was looking at her, frowning.

"Don't worry. You'll make it. If Cassie made it, you can."

"Who's Cassie?"

"My friend. She has spina bifida. When she came to visit from Buffalo, she wanted to step in the ocean. She tried Santa Monica too. Gave up on ever getting to the ocean. So we drove up the coast towards Malibu and found Will Rogers. She made it." Jo was smiling at the memories.

"Good times?"

"She cried. It was an emotional experience for her; for me."

"She never crossed a beach?"

"No. She had never been to the ocean. It was like coming to the end of the world and finding a new beginning."

He looked over to her. "I'll be okay if I don't get there."

"Too late, we're here." Jo got out of the car expecting Greg to follow. When he didn't she got frustrated and realized he might feel the same way. Maybe she was pushing him too hard. Perhaps he was in discomfort and trying to tell her by saying he didn't need to go anywhere in particular.

He opened his door but didn't get out right away.

"I'm sorry." She just stood there, not even taking a step forward or back.

"What do you have to be sorry for?"

"I'm being pushy."

"Honey, you don't know pushy like I do. You're fine."

"I just don't want you to be bored out here."

"So far, it's been pretty interesting," he confessed.

"If you're sure," she said hesitantly.

He got out. "Let's do this." He pushed his gait to near gimp-jog to keep up with her. "If you don't slow down, I'll expire before we cross the parking lot."

She turned back and waited. "I'll doubt you'll expire."

"Respiratory failure, at least." He slowed down, not wanting to poop out before he made it to the water.

"Then I suggest you inhale, then exhale. That way you won't forget to breathe." She smiled like the Cheshire Cat.

"Who could have thought it would be that simple?"

He caught up to her. They walked the few feet to the sand before he hesitated.

"You can do it, Duffy Moon!"

"Who in the hell is Duffy Moon?"

"Some character from an educational television show when I was a kid. I think he was related to Four, Four, Three, Two Mulligan Stew."

"Where in the hell did you go to school, on Mars?" Greg walked away from her, mumbling something under his breath.

She just stood there smiling. "Yo, Greg, you might want to take off your shoes."

He turned to face her." Why?"

"You're about to walk into the ocean."

He had less than five feet of sand between him and the Pacific. "Uh, good idea." He sat down in the sand, undid his shoes and removed his socks.

Jo offered him her hand as leverage up.

"Wait." He rolled up the cuffs on his jeans.

Jo did the same, then reoffered her hand.

Together they headed for the ocean, still holding hands.

"It's going to be cold," Jo warned.

"I can handle it." Greg stepped into the surf, but quickly jumped back as if a crab had clamped on to his foot. "Yikes!"

"Told you so."

He grabbed her close, pulling her into his chest. He bent down while she reached up to him. Their lips met. He kissed her gently, increasing pressure as she responded.

They held each other, lip-locked, for what seemed like a long time. Neither one of them wanted to let go. Their physical needs outweighed the power of the waves crashing around their ankles. Finally they pulled apart, each needing a breath.

Jo looked up into his eyes. They were as blue and as deep as the ocean. "What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry." He hung his head in shame.

"You have nothing to be sorry for." Jo reached up on tippy-toes to kiss him again


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

They walked the beach hand-in-hand, slowly making their way toward the lifeguard tower in the distance. It was much easier to walk on the wet sand than the dry. But the ocean was cold around their ankles. Greg gently urged Jo by the hand away from the water to the warm sand. They sat, the first time their hands left each other's since the second kiss. Jo folded her knees close to her, wrapping her arms around her legs. Greg stretched out, leaning back.

"The ocean's very mesmerizing."

Greg watched as the waves rolled in from the horizon to the shore. "It gives me vertigo to stare at it too long." He looked to the sky, and the wave motion was reflected in the clouds. "I think I'm getting sea-sick."

"We could go." Jo stood up, brushing the sand off her jeans.

"Do you think there's a cave at the bottom of the ocean?"

"This particular ocean?"

"Any ocean really. Like we thought it is deep enough, but then there's this cave at the bottom and it's actually deeper."

"Just the idea of that makes my head hurt."

Greg reached out his hand to her. "Help me up."

She dragged him out of the sand. "Damn. I probably should have put my shoes back on first."

"We can do that at the car."

"I don't want to carry them."

"Give them to me." Jo snatched at his sneakers. She tucked the socks in deeper under the tongues, then tied the laces together like she did with her own, tossing them over her shoulder.

"Wow." He looked at her with astonishment.

"You make it sound like a Herculean feat."

"No, not that. THAT!" He pointed to the vehicle that just pulled in next to theirs in the parking lot.

"It looks like the Oscar Meyer Wiener Mobile, without the wiener."

"Amazing. A giant rolling bun."

They wasted no time trying to get back to the parking lot in order to get a closer look.

Greg was struggling a bit by the end of the sand. However, the promise of another California oddity helped him overcome the pain.

"Now that's what I call yellow." Jo held her hand across her brow like a visor.

"I think it out glows the sun."

"What kind of car can be modified into this banana shape?"

"Maybe an old Dodge Charger." Greg looked around the crazy mobile.

"Who would want a car like this? It's an eye sore."

"Maybe the owner is the heir to the Dole Empire."

"Or Chiquita."

"Uh oh."

"What?"

"There's a stuffed cat in the back window."

"What's wrong with that? A lot of people have stuffed animals in their back windows."

"This is stuffed, like in taxidermy stuffed."

"Ew," Jo wrinkled up her nose.

"AND its fur is dyed purple." Greg had a frighteningly wicked grin on his face."

"That is SO wrong."

"Maybe this is Carmen Miranda's car." Greg headed to the passenger side of her Prius and proceeded to put on his socks and shoes.

"Still wrong." She re-shoed, then started the car. "So where to now?"

As if on cue, Greg's stomach growled. He placed his hand on his belly and spoke to his inner alien. "There, there now. We'll get fed soon."

"Lunch it is! Any requests?"

"As long as it's not a filthy fried chicken and donut café, I'm good."

"Since you're a big shot doctor," Jo started a new thought as they pulled onto the highway, "What kind of poisoning could one get in a greasy spoon like that?"

"What prompted that question?"

"I just wanted to know how much time I have between the ingestion of the poison and the time it takes effect."

"Thinking of poisoning anyone in particular?"

"Thanksgiving IS just a few days away."

Greg was thoughtful. "I suppose salmonella and botulism would be the easiest. Then there's klebsiella, if you actually stuff the bird."

"What if I use arsenic in the seasoning for the stuffing." She raised her eyebrows in hopeful anticipation.

"It all depends on the amount of the poison used and the person's metabolic rate. What kind of time frame are we looking at?"

"Hmmm. Let's say the person starts getting sick twenty-four hours, give or take, after ingestion," she was very carefree about discussing murder.

Greg was a little concerned. The conversation started being a fun look into his expertise, but now it sounded suspicious. Especially since he was participating in her Thanksgiving dinner. Who did she say she wanted to poison? Everybody? Her family? His?

"Come on, I really want to know."

"Can I ask why?"

"I'm trying to plan a crime and get away with it through reasonable doubt."

"Isn't it a bad idea to include anybody else in this plan? Accomplices are loose ends."

She noticed he was particularly distancing himself from her by moving closer to the door. Jo reached her hand over and patted his knee. "Relax Greg, I'm working on a plot for a spec script. It's research."

Still not sure, he just nodded and smiled weakly. He'd reserve judgment after a nice chat with Aunt Sarah.

"You still haven't mentioned what you're hungry for, other than not fried chicken and donuts."

"Oh, I don't know." Greg had lost his appetite during their toxic conversation.

"How about something light, like soup and a sandwich. They we can all have dinner at my place again." She knew he was suspicious. He had stopped steeling looks at her.

"Lunch sounds good. Anywhere we can get a Reuben is fine by me." Greg allowed himself to relax a bit.

"Nate and Al's it is."

Instead of heading back down Sunset, Jo chose Wilshire Boulevard for the return trip. The reasoning behind it was to give Greg a different view on their return, and the chance to see the other side of Beverly Hills and the Wilshire Corridor.

Nate and Al's is the kind of place where the mom and pop deli meets the rich and famous. Nestled on a street one or two blocks parallel to Rodeo Drive. Swank without pretension.

Jo insisted on dropping him off at the curb in front while she parked in a ramp a few blocks away. He waited rather impatiently, alternating between leaning on the cane and bouncing it between his legs. Every time the door opened, the smell of various grilled meats wafted out on the air currents. And almost everyone was carrying a take-out container.

Jo snuck up on him unsuspectingly. She resisted goosing him, unsure how he'd respond. Instead they entered, a bit curious about what to expect. In front of them was a huge pastry case with a window in the wall behind it. There on display were chubs of cured meats. If they weren't hungry before, the smoky smell of salami, pastrami and capicola enticed their stomachs further. And they hadn't even seen the menu yet.

A hostess took them to a booth towards the back. Having seen and smelled the wonderful aromas available, you would think placing an order was easy. But there was just so much to choose from.

House slid into the far seat of the booth, quite self-conscious about the farting noise that seemed to emanate from his butt. When Jo's seat did the same thing, neither one could hold back their laughter.

"Just imagine a group of people sitting at the same time," Greg teased.

Jo tried hard to stifle her giggles.

Fortunately, there was enough ambient sound in the deli to drown out their singular air currents being forcefully rent from the vinyl cushions. Once the menus were perused and their orders taken, a silence grew between them.

Greg was quite comfortable with it. Jo, however, felt self-conscious. Without conversation, she was left alone with the thoughts bounding around in her head and the reminder of the loneliness.

There was something about her that caught Greg's attention. A look in her eyes, or maybe it was how she tilted her head. There was an air of uncertainty. Without thinking he reached out, placing his hand on hers to get her attention.

"What are you thinking?"

Jo shook her head to clear her thoughts. "Not much of anything."

"I doubt that." He took his hand away. "You went somewhere in your head."

"The black hole of Calcutta."

"I get it," he teased with a sarcastic disappointment in his voice. "You don't want to talk about personal stuff."

"I just figured you didn't."

"_Au contraire_. To prove it, I'm going to ask you a personal question."

She stiffened, unsure what he'd ask.

"How do you know Aunt Sarah?" He highly doubted they traveled in the same knitting circles.

Jo smiled, revealing her relief. "Whew, thought you were going to ask a toughy." She wiped her brow subconsciously.

"Like what? He gave her a lecherous grin.

"I've known your family forever. Our parents, your mom and dad, and my parents have been friends for ages."

"You knew my dad?" Greg was curious. Why did his whole family know her but he didn't?

Jo shook her head, wondering if he remembered her.

"Then I must know you."

"I was just a baby. You were almost a decade older. Then your family moved away.

"My dad traveled a lot for work." She could have been from one of a half of a dozen places he lived. Sure his parents would have kept in touch with friends. He had to admit he knew some of them, but not all of them."

"Can I tell you something?" She seemed nervous.

"Sure." He was concerned. What did she know about him? Apparently all these years she remained close to his family. What had they revealed in passing?

"Well, it's not an easy thing to say…and it's not polite to speak ill of the dead." Her confession was made with her head down, her hands folded in her lap.

His curiosity was growing quickly. What could she possibly have to say? As far as Greg could remember, John House was the consummate professional in mixed company. "Go on, I won't be upset."

"It's just that he was kind of scary." She let out a nervous giggle.

"You have no idea," he mumbled.

"He seemed so big and so stern when I was a kid. He was never mean or spoke harshly to me, but I was afraid of him."

"He was a bit foreboding," Greg agreed.

"I'm sorry he died." She studied Greg's expression, quickly rephrasing. "I mean I'm sorry for your loss."

Greg gave a barely noticeable half nod, saved by the waitress delivering their lunch. He was astonished at the size of his Reuben. He had never seen so much meat between two slices of bread before.

"It's amazingly gimungous."

"Now I know why everybody left with doggie bags."

"It definitely is enough for two meals."

"You won't have to cook tonight."

"And your mother and your aunt?"

"They can fend for themselves," he said emphatically. "They both know how to cook. Besides, it'll give them a chance to scheme a little more."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I may be a guy, but I know when I'm being set up." He witnessed the confusion on her face. "You may not be aware of it, but my mother and aunt have manipulated us into spending time together."

Jo stopped eating and just glared at him. To Greg it looked like she wanted to slap him. It was a look of hurt.

"Either you're completely clueless and just realizing you've been duped; or you're in on it, and now you're busted."

She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. There had been the hope of a relationship of some sort, but the way he put it made her feel cheap.

"The old hens are worried that spinster boy will grow old and lonely." Greg's demeanor changed to reflect his irritation with their meddling.

"I guess they feel the same way about me then."

"Brilliant. Why is it that people think if you put two people who are alone together, they cease to be lonely?"

Jo emulated his mood. "Because they don't understand that being alone and lonely are two different states of being."

The somberness emanated from both of them

"Do you mind if we go?" She wasn't feeling very sociable at the moment.

Neither was Greg. "Not at all."

The bill was paid and Greg insisted on walking to the parking ramp with her. They didn't talk much after that, each just thought about their relationship situations.

Jo had been duped. Sarah and Blythe had built Greg up to her. They told her he was eligible and looking. She, herself, wasn't looking for a serious relationship. Only for companionship. One failed marriage was enough. She had to admit she was alone and did get lonely at times.

Greg, too, was thinking about the predicament. He had been alone most of his life. Loneliness came and went like his moods. He didn't analyze it much. It wasn't something eating away at him anymore.

Sure at one time, for a period of about ten years post Stacey, he longed for a renewed romance with Lisa Cuddy. But he was sorry after getting it. She said she didn't want to change him. But she did. She felt she couldn't trust him. The ember from their Michigan days could only survive one re-lighting. Their relationship burnt out quickly. No phoenix could ever be reborn from the drowned ashes.

As the car approached the exit, Jo finally spoke. "Where to?"

"You might as well drop me off at the hotel." Greg's voice was soft, almost sad.

Jo didn't respond. She headed for the Beverly Hills Hotel. It was a short drive, giving neither one of them a chance to think of anything worth talking about. As she pulled up the driveway to let him off, she felt as down as his voice sounded.

He didn't open the door right away. Jo didn't want to rush him out of her car, but the valet seemed confused as to why they were just sitting there. Greg slowly turned toward her.

"Come with me."

"I thought you wanted to be alone." Jo felt the pull of his gaze.

"I am alone, and lonely. I can change that with you." He leaned over, gently kissing her in enticement.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

Greg backed into his room leading her by the hips, their lips locked in an urgent kiss. Jo was floating with his touch, her body tingling like it hadn't in a long time. Before she knew it, he was trying to undress her while kissing her and moving them toward the bed. She made it easier for him by helping him, her hands over his, guiding then where she wanted to feel them as he took off her top.

They fell onto the bed, a tangle of arms and clothes, lips and bedding. He rolled her, working at her jeans as she simultaneously kicked off her shoes and snaked her hands up his taut chest, preparing to remove his shirt. They broke apart only for that brief moment it took to rip his shirt up over his head.

Jo's hips were thrusting, responding to his touch as he tugged her pants down. She could care less if they came all the way off, all she needed was him in reach. Her hands found his belt and zipper. Greg let one hand roam and helped her find him with the other.

She was wet. Oh, so wet, her clit throbbing in anticipation. He smiled to himself. She wanted it as much as he did. Her body possibly needing it more. His manhood responded to her touch, blood engorging his shaft, heightening the thrill of her fingers caressing his delicate skin.

They were breathing heavily into each other's mouths, their bodies' needs for joining more than their lips could give them.

Greg moaned with pleasure, his hand stroking her labia playfully, two fingers sliding in and out of her vagina, stroking her g-spot while his thumb teased her button.

She writhed beneath him, leaning her hips into his stroking while trying to suck her mouth onto his to breathe his air. He wasn't nearly ready, but she was coming with a ferocity he had rarely experienced before. There was only one way he could be pleasured so quickly.

Greg pulled away from her mouth and saw that she was enrapt in his pleasuring of her. As long as he kept his fingers working, she was his. He played her like a piano, the rhythm slowing like al lullaby as he maneuvered himself. Jo was barely aware of what he was doing with himself other than what his hand was doing.

Greg swung his leg over her head, dangling himself over her mouth like a piece of tempting fruit. She reached up, kissing the tip, and he shuddered, slowly lowering himself down for her to take parts of him into her mouth.

His hand slowly moved from between vagina walls to her thighs, spreading them slightly to make way for his face. Greg's tongue darted around her clit teasingly before licking and flicking at the now hard nob. Jo mimicked his movements with her tongue on his penis, bringing her body upward to meet him in both areas.

Greg began sucking, signaling to her what he wanted. She followed, taking him partially in and moving his penis around her mouth like she was French kissing. He grew hard, more than she could handle, and she let him slide out. He was tongue fucking her, lapping her juices while she licked his scrotum, suckling one ball after the other.

He shuddered so hard, she thought he might come. Jo would rather have him in her vagina when that happened. "I want you to come inside me," she said breathlessly. She stopped moving her hips, threatening to turn off if he didn't do as she asked.

Her wish was his command. Greg was sure she was having the best sex of her life. It didn't matter that he wasn't feeling it. He enjoyed her enjoyment of him.

Jo felt the tension in his body change. He wasn't as sexually charged as he had been before her request. And yet she was full of surprises. Her hands caressed him and ticked him as he shifted; her tongue occasionally flicking out. His ribs, his side, his thigh, all moving targets for that talented tongue.

He slid into her without hesitation or resistance. Being larger than most, he usually had to ease his way in; but she was ready for him. Wide and open, like her mouth on his. It was as if she was trying to devour him through both orifices.

Her hands caressed him, her fingers strumming his sensitive areas, searching for the trigger spots that made his muscles rippled with her touch. They were melded together in rhythm, sensation and vocalization. They were one universe, one microcosm, one macrocosm, and nothing else existed as their bodies responded to the only stimuli that mattered - each other.

Together their bodies escalated with the pleasure like two musicians playing a concerto, slowly building in tempo and tone. Jo's hips bucked instinctively as Greg's glans rubbed her g-spot with increased vigor. He could feel her spasms growing, her muscles clamping on, making it harder for him to escape. Making him harder.

The waves increased like whitecaps on the ocean. Stolen kisses were repeated with fervor as she whimpered down his throat, the sound lost in the growling, guttural expressions of his growing orgasm. He would try to stave it off until her womb welcomed his with ultimate intensity.

It was coming. Crashing on the shore with the force of the tide coming in. It lapped at him, tugged, then drew back with him in tow. The next broke harder, threatening to knock him down. The last crashed with tidal force as their hips clashed against each other, her scream lost in his cries as she raked his flanks with her fingers digging into flesh, forcing him deeper inside of her until they were both pulled under, her ebb and his shuddering flow.

The undertow was strong, peaceful and calming, drowning them both. Neither one fought it, their bodies clinging to each other like a life preserver that failed to surface, yet kept them from sinking. That blissful nothingness of an endorphin enriched high mingled with a mind-numbing sense of contentment. It was somewhere between life and death, akin to floating in the womb before the birthing process. A twinning of existence between unborn and earthly consciousness.

Jo was crying, nestled against Greg. He could hear her whimpering, an occasional shiver ran through her body, jumping to him. He rubbed her back in small stokes, partly to soothe her, partly to keep his blood circulating through his extremity. Her head was on his bicep, his elbow bent slightly to hold her next to him.

Whether his eyes were opened or closed, he did not know. The ceiling was over him, yet it wasn't exactly the ceiling. He could be looking through his eyelids into the heavens. Sex had never made him lightheaded before. This was probably what other people considered as mind blowing. It was like he was simultaneously outside of his body looking down at himself looking up -a mobius mind loop. Or maybe it was a dream. Whatever the nature, there was no hurry for it to end.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

Jo was the first to wake up. Greg was snoring softly. The lines around his eyes softened in slumber. They tempted her, calling her lips to feel the delicate skin that shielded the mirrors to his soul. That could wait. Let him sleep. There would be time later.

She untangled herself from his arm, moving cat-like off the bed as not to disturb him. Once free, she debated on pulling the covers up over his naked frame. Greg stirred, turning on his side and curling up in the fetal position for warmth.

She left him, heading for the bathroom. Her body ached in places from muscles long forgotten with disuse. Jo smiled in spite of herself. He WAS magnificent. Her reflection told her as well. It could be a very long time before the twinkle in her eyes faded.

He snuck up behind her, admiring her reflection next to his. His hands massaged her shoulders, sliding down her arms, moving from her elbows to cupping her breasts. He pushed into her from behind, his erection just hard enough to stir her loins. She arched back into his chest, her mouth open in sensual, deep inhalation.

He wanted to watch himself make love to her in the mirror, to see her face, watch himself ravish her. Almost instinctively she knew what he wanted. Their height difference the only complication. Times like these made knowing the Kama Sutra a bonus.

He entered her from behind, her arms flung over his shoulders, his arms over hers, cupping her hips. He hung his head low as he sucked her earlobes. She nuzzled his neck.

Greg stole glances at himself merging with her as their hips sought to meet. This strange yin and yang making them whole. He never wanted to let go of her. Logistically they had to. Neither one had the stamina to go much longer. Slowly they separated, neither one taking their eyes off the other's reflection.

Greg led her by the hand over to the tub. He sat on the edge, leaning over to engage the stopper and start the waters running. Joanne got down on her hands and knees, crawling closer like a leopardess nosing up to her mate. She rubbed her cheeks around his calves, then knees, forcing her head between his legs.

He liked the animal play. She licked his inner thighs, starting at the knees, working her way to his crotch. She brushed her tongue and lips everywhere except for his penis, causing him to writhe and shudder in anticipation. Greg gasped as she took him in her mouth, sucking, nipping, flicking her tongue as he swelled inside her.

Jo did what she had never done before. What she never though she would never do - ever. She relaxed her throat, envisioning herself as a snake, letting him glide down her gullet, trying not to gag on his girth, just visualizing it going down until her lips closed around its base, her throat spasming.

His thighs spasmed with her hands braced there for support. It was more than he could take, a pain and pleasure mixed like a scream and sigh that escaped his throat as he exploded, the force of it sending him literally over the edge and into the water.

It wasn't as eloquent as it seemed. She immediately dove for the toilet and vomited. She continued to wretch until the revulsion passed. Greg had quickly recovered and leaned on his arms from inside the bathtub, watching her be sick as a dog.

"I have been told I'm toxic," he said grinning.

She shuddered with fear and fever. "I've never done that before. I don't think I'll be doing that again."

He rested his chin on his arms. "That's too bad. You're amazing."

"There's nothing more romantic than throwing up afterwards." She wrapped her arms around herself.

He held out his hand. "Come in and warm up."

She rested against his chest as he wrapped his arms around her, her head in the crook of his shoulder. They were comfortable, familiar. Kindred spirits who existed strongly separately and synergistically when together.

"You're dangerous for me," Greg said wistfully.

"How so?"

"You're a walking, talking aphrodisiac. I've never felt so-"

"Me either. There's just something-"

"Driving us together."

"Need."

"Want."

"We're pathetic, aren't we?" Jo looked up into his eyes.

"It's much worse than that." He leaned down and kissed her.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

The return to Ridgemont Drive was, for all intents and purposes, experienced in a bubble. Joanne smiled the whole way home knowing Greg was looking at her and nothing else. Their arrival occurred just after Sarah and Blythe's return from Cedar's. Greg walked past the car, placing his hand on the hood to gauge how long.

The door opened before either one of them could reach for the handle. Greg jumped back, startled. Jo just laughed.

"And where have you two been all day?" Blythe looked from her son to Joanne.

"Ma, you're prying," Greg scowled.

"Don't worry about it, Greg. She's already seen our day on TV."

Greg followed the women in. "What do you mean?"

"TMZ is on at two. No doubt they aired this morning's footage." Jo winked at him.

Greg slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. "Oy!"

"That's going to haunt you for a long time to come. Just wait 'til your friends back home find out."

"Thank god they don't watch that crap." He dropped himself into the nearest chair. "So, Aunt Sarah, how was your day?"

"I'll live. I'm more interested in hearing how you impersonated a celebrity and JoJo posed as his mistress."

"That was just a case of mistaken identity. We actually did meet Hugh Laurie. He was a bit freaked out. Evidently his wife needed proof I wasn't him. Just weird." Greg shook his head like the whole state was full of crazy people.

"That's because you practically mauled me in front of the cameras." Jo dropped in a seat across from him. "Tell them about the highlight of the day."

For a split second he was mortified. Was she intentionally trying to embarrass him? "Uh," he faltered. He looked at his relatives, who were eagerly smiling in anticipation of hearing some juicy gossip.

"The purple cat in the banana car," she urged.

"Oh, that," he exhaled with relief.

"What did you think I meant?"

Blythe and Sarah leaned in closer.

"Well, if you thought seeing a fluorescent yellow, banana shaped car with a taxidermy purple dyed cat in the back window wasn't interesting enough, then I don't think you'll find the other event very interesting."

"Does it involve the Traveling Shovel of Death?" Blythe knew her son better than he thought she did.

"The Traveling Shovel of Death?" Aunt Sarah and Joanne said in unison.

"Don't get him started on that," Blythe begged. "But do tell us about this other event."

"Well," Greg furrowed his brow trying to think of something quickly.

"We're waiting," Blythe teased.

"First, I have to preface this by saying this IS Los Angeles. And the freaks around here seem to be able to spot a visitor a mile away.

"Now if it was New York City, I'd expect a watch salesman on every corner wearing a trench coat. After all, it's cold out and they have to display their wares in a way they can close shop quickly and run from the law."

"The Law," JoJo mimicked his accent.

"Well, out here, they're cell phone salesmen."

"They are quite persistent out here," Jo nodded her head for added emphasis.

Greg chuckled, catching himself mid smile trying to retain a straight face. "Well if you don't buy into his cell phone schtick he changes tack.

"Evidently, boring a potential customer with statistics about the weather is a form of punishment."

"Did he try to sell you a pair of sunglasses?" Aunt Sarah asked innocently.

Greg shook his head negatively. "An umbrella."

"You mean a parasol," she corrected.

"No, I mean an umbrella," he said with exasperation.

"But the sun was shining all day."

"He threatened to do a rain dance if I didn't buy one."

"What did you do?"

"I didn't buy an umbrella, that's for sure." Greg thumped the cane between his legs while he thought of an audience appropriate ending.

"Then what happened?" JoJo egged him on.

"He began hoping around on one foot, then the other, making Indian noises. Basically acting like the crazy man he was, with arms flailing and the jumping around like he was dancing barefoot on hot coals."

"You have to admit, it was a very effective rain dance," Jo interjected.

Now Greg had both is mom's and Aunt's full attention. "He rolled his eyes like it was a big deal. "I had to pay the guy twenty bucks for an umbrella so he'd stop pissing on my shoe."

The cackling laughter started at a relatively high pitch. He wondered if they'd be shattering glass soon.

"Where'd you learn to tell such a great story?" Aunt Sarah asked, half laughing, half gasping for air.

"You need to calm down," Greg warned. She was starting to look a little pale. "There are a million ways to die. Laughter shouldn't be one of them."

"Woo, I think I need to go lie down a bit."

Greg leaped up as she stood. "Let me help you." He grabbed her by the elbow, leading her to her room.

"Monday's are very trying." Aunt Sarah was slow in moving, her breath coming more labored.

He helped her to the bed before closing the door behind him. He turned to find her laying on the coverlet, eyes half closed. Looking around the room he spied a crocheted afghan on the back of a nearby chair. He hooked it with the crook of his cane, flinging it into his free hand. She was asleep before he draped it over her.

But he didn't want to leave her just yet. Greg sat the wing backed chair watching her. He hardly knew this woman, and yet he traveled thousands of miles to assure her that the House line was best to end with him. Procreating was a very bad idea. There was nothing worth reproducing in his genes. He smirked thinking Joanne would probably disagree.

Blythe peeked in to check on the room's overly quiet occupants. Greg has dozed off much like his father used to, head tossed back like the last view before sleep was an intent staring at the ceiling tiles. As she pulled the door closed, he snorted awake, disoriented by the darkness.

"What time is it?"

"Five."

He pushed himself out of the chair as quietly as possible as not to disturb his sleeping Aunt. His mother opened the door just wide enough for him to squeeze through. She practically pulled him through.

"If you want to catch a nap you can lay down on the couch."

"I wasn't expecting to fall asleep."

Blythe notices his limp was more pronounced. "You've done too much today. You're tired."

"I've very aware of my limitations, thank you very much."

"And you're cranky."

"You're right, it's been a long day." He eased himself onto the sofa, a small groan escaping his lips.

"Do you want some ibuprofen?"

"Yes, please." His hand reached down to his thigh, working it gingerly. The cramping was just beginning, a side effect of the strenuous exertions of earlier in the day.

Blythe disappeared into the kitchen. Joanne returned in her stead. She had a cup of tea in one hand and the medication in the other.

"Do you need anything else?"

"I'm good."

"If you want to lay down, you can use my bed."

"Are you going to be in it," he asked softly.

"That would be inappropriate. Your mother would get suspicious." She sat next to him.

"We can't have that. She'd have us married and pregnant in record time."

"Then all of our parents would die happy." She brushed her hand across his.

"Why is it parents find happiness in the grandchildren?"

"Payback for the hell we put them through."

Greg pulled his hand away. Payback. It was always a bitch. Did his mom think he deserved a little smartass like himself telling him how wrong or ignorant he was? He'd a least make sure the kid was his. Worse yet, it was possible he'd have a child of average to subnormal intelligence. Could he even possibly relate to that? Raising a mini version of himself was hard enough to fathom; but an idiot? He doubted he could say anything civil.

"What were you just thinking?" Jo's voice held much concern.

"Nothing important," he said absently.

"You lie like a bad rug." She patted his thigh and sighed heavily upon rising.

"You calling me a liar?" He grabbed her hand as she tried to walk away.

"If the fairy tale fits."


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

Greg woke to his phone ringing close to his head. He was alone in bed wishing Jo was with him. He hadn't wanted to say good-bye last night when she dropped him off. They had dared to kiss briefly before hurrying out of the car. He didn't even look back for fear he'd have to return for one last embrace before Monday became Tuesday.

What today promised was left unknown. No matter what the plan, it was sure to include his mother and aunt. He'd have to behave himself.

"Hello," he answered sleepily.

"Did I wake you?" Blythe knew she had.

"I needed to get up anyway." Greg rolled out of bed. "What time is it?"

"Eight."

He sensed hesitation in her voice. "What's wrong?"

"Aunt Sarah woke up feeling under the weather."

"Understandable." He sat up swiping his free hand through his hair. "But my Spidey senses are tingling."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that I have a feeling you're not telling me something else."

"Well, just that it's me and you today."

"What's up with Joanne?" He was hurting. It had to be the weather.

"She decided not to get out of bed this morning."

Greg wasn't sure how to interpret that. "Sounds like it's going to be a rough day all around." He hobbled over to the window.

"Are you sick, too?" Her disappointment in the way the day was playing out changed to concern.

"My leg hurts a bit. Probably because it's raining." He let the curtain drop back over the window.

"Why don't you just stay in bed for a while. I'll take care of things here. Then I'll come get you."

"That'll work. We can stop off at the market on the way back. I need to pick up a few things to make dinner."

"That's a good idea."

Greg didn't go back to sleep. Instead he picked up the room service menu. He had to admit, he was baffled by the general malaise that seemed to be creeping through the Ridgemont house. Aunt Sarah he could understand. But Jo? What had her feeling so bad she confined herself to bed? The sex was rough. Maybe she was just sore. He'd get to the bottom of things when he got to her house.

Room service arrived, and he ate, not just because he was hungry, it was necessary fuel to think through his thoughts about Joanne. Her unexpected will to stay in bed was the puzzle of the day. Breakfast was an obstacle to get beyond. Then a shower. Then call Mom for chauffeur service.

Greg popped a few Ibuprofen. The more he was awake, the more his leg hurt. The cold and damp that snuck in overnight seemed different. It affected his body in ways the northeastern weather didn't. He thought in impossible to feel 'blah' in SoCal.

Once in the car he briefly gave his mom a one-armed hug before she headed out of the hotel driveway. "I suppose Aunt Sarah is feeling super crappy today."

"Is that a medical term?"

"It is when you have Lupus. How's her breathing?"

"She's congested."

"She just feels congested. It's more like inflamed."

"The apheresis usually wipes her out. But yesterday they adjusted her Prednisone."

"Those are big words, Mom. You've been practicing."

"I didn't want to sound stupid in front of my genius son."

"I'll check on her when we get in." Greg sighed feeling a bit of relief.

"There's a new Trader Joe's on the corner of Sunset and Crescent Heights. We can stop there for provisions."

"Anyplace will do. I thought some homemade chicken soup might perk us all up."

Blythe pulled into the underground parking facility. "You're really into cooking lately."

"It's part of my-" Greg caught himself, "new lifestyle. I got sick of canned soup and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. So now I make soup from scratch, bake my own bread, roast and grind my own peanuts, and can my own jams."

They exited the car, taking the elevator to the store.

"This is one of those hippy stores, isn't it?" House looked around at all things organic. "Is the toilet paper vegan, organic or both?"

Blythe slapped his bicep playfully. "Stop it. And don't get fussy about the chicken. I don't want to bail you out of jail for fighting with an animal rights activist."

"I'll just ask if the bird was taken out by the Cryps or the Bloods. Yes, I'll take the one with the red bandana and gang tats."

His mother eyed him scornfully.

"What?" He shrugged. "I'm a doctor and I know what to do with blood. If I were a coroner, I'd pick the Cryp Chick."

"Where do you get your strange sense of humor?"

"Not a clue," he said sarcastically.

Before long they were in the driveway on Ridgemont. Greg and his mom each took a bag into the house. It was a quiet, almost eerily quiet. Greg dropped the bags off in the kitchen, then headed for Sarah's room. The lights were off and the room dim. He wasn't sure if she was sleeping or not. Greg hesitated at the door.

"I'm awake," she called out feebly, followed by a coughing fit.

"Do you need anything?" He felt awkward asking. What he really wanted to do was stick a stethoscope in his ears and listen to her lungs.

"You have a very serious look in your eyes. Are you in doctor mode?"

He stepped in to approach the bed and sit next to her. "I'm always in doctor mode."

"I'll be fine. I just need some rest. Your mother will look after me. You and JoJo should go out and enjoy yourselves."

"Well, it's raining out. I hardly ever enjoy myself in the rain."

"I bet it makes your leg ache."

Greg nodded.

"Welcome to old age." She managed a weak chuckle.

"Gee, thanks."

Sarah reached out her hand, placing it in his. "I wish we could have known each other better."

"This is starting to sound like a death bed confession. You're much too young to die."

"Age has nothing to do with it. When it's your time to go, it's your time."

"Well, we all have a lot of time left."

"Then stop doting on me and get gallivanting with our pretty hostess."

"Not going to happen today," Greg shrugged apologetically. "She's feeling a bit under the weather, too."

"Oh dear."

"Don't worry. I think she'll pull through. I'm going to play mad scientist in the kitchen so mom can nurse the two of you back to health."

"The Easy Bake Oven is in the closet. Have your mommy supervise when using."

That was slight dig. It had to be. She hadn't forgotten what he had done all those years ago. Of all the things she could have said, she picked the oven.

"You're very much like Oma," Greg said lightly, choosing to ignore her comment and changing the subject.

"Me? You have her attitude."

"I'm not sure how to take that." Did he dare tell her that people considered him an asshole narcissist? It was pretty much an insult to his grandmother.

"It's a compliment. She was a strong, opinionated, knowledgeable authoritarian." 

Something about that last word made Greg prickle.

"You have the same look your father got when we talked about Oma."

A burning question erupted in his brain and nearly escaped his mouth.

"What look is that?"

Greg tried to keep his face neutral.

"Nervous? Scared? Trepidation? Oma was particularly hard on John. He was always getting into trouble. When her brand of discipline didn't work, she sent him off to military school."

He was tempted to ask what the disciplinary measures were. He had a feeling he suffered Oma's wrath second generation.

"Don't you have some mad science experiment to concoct?"

"Sure do. You get some rest. I'm going to check on Joanne before I get cooking." Greg squeezed the hand that covered his. It was the only affection he could return to the woman he was alienated from. Displays of affection were always hard for him to express.

When he stepped up to Jo's door, it was ajar. He could hear her sniffling over what sounded like the TV. Greg knocked lightly before pushing through. He wasn't expecting to find a disheveled heap rolled up in the blankets.

She didn't have a cold. She was weeping. "You didn't give me a chance to tell you to go away."

"Are you okay?" Women cried for two - well three- reasons. Either she was sick and in pain, overjoyed, or depressed. Jo definitely was not happy.

"I'd like to be left alone. Close the door behind you."

"Oh…kay," Greg backed out feeling slighted.

Blythe passed him in the hallway carrying tea and toast on a tray. "She's not very cheerful today."

"Woman problems?"

"Sort of," Blythe pushed passed him.

Greg heard Jo thank his mother before he moved off to the kitchen. Women.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty-One

The smell of soup permeated the house. Blythe was yet again impressed by her son's culinary abilities. Greg ladled out four bowls. Once again Blythe prepared a tray. Then they heard shuffling footsteps. Sarah was wrapped in her robe, following her nose towards the aroma.

Greg smiled. "Feeling better?"

"A little." She slipped into a seat with anticipation.

Before the bowls were placed on the table, Joanne trudged in. She was suffering from some serious bed head and looked like death warmed over. It worried Greg a bit, but his mother and aunt seemed unfazed.

Greg sat across from her, keeping watch. She glanced up at him frequently catching him looking at her.

"I took some medication."

It sounded random and strangely out of place, but Greg knew the comment was directed to him.

"Evidently it's working." He wasn't sure why she felt a need to explain herself.

The rest of dinner was finished in silence. Greg wondered what he was going to do afterwards. Board games always led to boredom. Perhaps they could just sit around and commiserate. Nah, that's a recipe for suicide.

"I'm going back to bed. Thanks for dinner." Jo got up and shuffled back to her room, closing the door behind her.

Just by her departure, the atmosphere in the room lightened. "Cloudy with a chance of thunderstorms."

"Be nice, Greg. Not everyone can be as cheerful as you." Blythe shot him a warning look. She bid him to go rest while she cleaned up.

Greg sat in the living room, staring out the windows over the canyon. He was tired, but amazingly not more sore. He felt at ease, relaxed knowing the patients were on the mend.

Blythe finished the dishes, then joined her son. "Dinner was delicious. Thank you."

"De nada."

"What are you thinking?" She sat next to her son looking out the window presumably at what he was looking at.

"Just concerned. Jo seems out of it."

"It's stress. She's got a lot on her mind with the holiday and all."

"Did she take her medication when you brought her the tea earlier?"

"How did you know?"

"Her mood improved."

"Maybe it was the soup."

"Probably because I loaded it up with anti-depressants. Now we can all be happy," Greg said snidely.

"You must be tired, you're getting cranky."

"I'm always cranky."

"Should I take you back to the hotel?"

"Yeah. That would probably be best. Tomorrow's another day."

Greg stopped in to say goodnight to his aunt.

"Thank you, Greg. The soup was amazing. I'm feeling better already."

"I'm going to head out."

"Don't go on account of me," Sarah pleaded.

"You're not the only one who needs rest." Greg stifled a yawn.

"Go back to your hotel and get some sleep. Tomorrow will be a better day for everyone."

Greg left with one hope in his heart. He wanted to rent a motorcycle. He needed the feeling of freedom it would give him. He also thought a ride on the back, holding tightly onto him would be beneficial for Joanne as well.

Upon returning to the hotel, Greg inquired a the front desk to see if anyone even thought they knew of a rental agency that might have what he was looking for. Sure he could just pull out his laptop; but hey, hotels were in the customer service industry. The less work he had to do, the better.

"Mr. House, how are you enjoying your stay with us?"

"This place is amazing. I'll recommend it to everyone on Yelp."

"What can we do for you this evening?"

"I'm interested in renting a motorcycle for the rest of my stay."

"Our concierge will be able to help you with that." The desk clerk picked up the phone and rang the appropriate extension.

"Yes, Mr. House needs some assistance with a rental vehicle. Could you come down?"

Within moments of hanging up, the elevator doors opened and out stepped a man in a three piece suit wearing a name tag. Greg shook hands with him and they got down to business.

"I'd like to rent a motorcycle from tomorrow through Sunday morning."

"Very good, sir. Is there a particular make and model you'd prefer?"

Greg knew the concierge probably arranged several of these types of transactions that ended in Harleys or Ducatis. In his dream of dreams he would have asked for a Triumph Bonneville. But there were only two bikes for him now.

"An Aprilia or the Honda C3R 1000RR. Those are the only two I can ride. So if you can't find one, don't worry about it."

"Both excellent choices, I'm sure. I do believe we can arrange for the Honda. We've had requests for that one before."

"Really?" Greg's smile returned.

"I'll just need to copy your driver's license and get your authorization and proof of insurance. You should be all set."

"Wow, you guys are better than the DMV."

"We try."

Greg gave him the necessary documents and filled out the paperwork. He left for his room feeling like tomorrow would be the best day yet.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty-Two

When Greg reached the front desk bright and early Wednesday morning, he was hoping for good news on his rental. He had his jacket on and his back pack slung over his shoulder. The hotel clerk smiled as she acknowledged his arrival.

"Good morning, Mr. House. Your stallion awaits just outside."

Greg was elated. He felt smug and was sure he was smiling, possibly even beaming.

As a bellman opened a door upon, he pointed with his arm to the V.I.P. spot where House's vehicle was parked.

Greg too one look and knew he had made the right decision by staying at his hotel. "Sweet!"

They had secured an exact copy of his own bike back home - minus the scratches and dings. Sitting comfortably on the seat was two helmets, just like he liked them. They had accommodated a request he hadn't even voiced. Greg walked up to the fine machine, just happy to see a bike in the midst of fancy cars and limos.

He rested his cane against the bike and began rigging the helmet through his back pack straps. He wasn't yet sure how to rig the cane to stay in place. He could always shove it down his spine between the shirt and jacket; but that wasn't the wisest idea. It was longer than his torso and might restrict head movement or slide to the side and distract him.

It wasn't until he was on the motorcycle and ready to push off the stand that his hand absently checked for the modified cane holder on the right. For a few seconds he though about what to do with it.

The head valet walked over, sensing his dis-ease. He tapped Greg on the shoulder from behind to get his attention over the din of the engine. Then he tapped the left side of the bike indicated the holder was there.

House switched the cane from right to left and clipped it in place. He was going to have to thank the concierge for anticipating every one of his needs.

The motorcycle traveled out onto Benedict Canyon. The regular ride on Sunset was already boring him. Before bed last night he searched routes to get him to his destination without as many traffic lights. A right onto Benedict had him heading North. The famous canyon street through Beverly Hills would wind him through residential areas up into woodlands and a scenic overlook to the top, where Mulholland Drive waited.

As a boy he fantasized about speeding through the curves of this famous mountain road behind the wheel of an old Jaguar like a James Dean wannabe. Knowing how the Honda handled, he was elated to put her through the paces like a member of Team Repsol. And he could for very brief stretches.

The road, although flat in most places, wound dangerously. To the right he was buffered by the sides of hills or the sheer drop off of a canyon wall. There was very little room for error and no room to ride the center of the road for fear of being cut off. Swerving in either direction would result in death.

He was approaching the crazy intersection he had studied on the map. For a very short distance, beginning at the intersections of Coldwater Canyon and Franklin Canyon, Mulholland and Coldwater were the same stretch of road. He just hoped he could figure out where they split apart again. It was about a half mile up the tarmac at another fork in the road, thought it wasn't clear whether or not Mulholland was the turn to the left or the run straight through.

Since the straight away looked to head downhill, he chose the even path on the left. Laurel Canyon was supposed to be his only downgrade run. The road opened up, curving and winding with great vistas on either side. He hoped Jo would ride with him so they could stop at the various overlook points. She could tell him what certain landmarks were. They could spend time together, and he could learn more about her. Right now he was focused on reaching Laurel Canyon and heading for the streets that would take him to her door.

Greg was easily frustrated driving up Lookout Mountain when three separate times he made wrong turns. How anybody figured out where to put streets and houses in the maze of twists and turns, he had no idea. He'd come to a corner where three unnamed streets met, then split again into two different streets five yards later. He ended up going back to Laurel Canyon and driving until he found cell reception somewhere near Crescent Heights and Sunset.

"Ma," he huffed angrily when his mother answered her cell phone. "How in the hell do I get from Laurel to Ridgemont? I keep making wrong turns."

Blythe covered her laughing with a cough or two. "Cabbie lost?"

"I rented a vehicle."

"Oh. Don't you have GPS?"

"No. And don't ask why not."

"Get on Lookout Mountain. Stay to the right by the school. Stay to the right at the next fork in the road. The second fork is Green something or other. Veer left. Then there's a road, Skyline, I think, on your right and a turn to your left. Take the turn to the left. Now you have two roads to chose from on the right and one on the left. Take the left. Swerve through the curves and you come to another fork in the road. To your left is Hollywood Hills Road. There should be a sign for Sunset Crest and Ridgemont pointing to the right. Head up to the right and turn left at the first possible street."

"Right, right, left, left, right, left. Got it."

"Are you sure?"

"If I'm not there in fifteen minutes, send out a search party."

"If you're not here in twenty, I'll come looking for you. We'll need to meet up at the little store at Kirkwood. You can follow me back."

Greg hung up and sighed. He wasn't particularly fond of driving the Hollywood Hills.

Ten minutes later he was parking the bike and unloading the helmets. His mother came out to greet him.

"You made it!" She proudly hugged him.

"Let's pretend it wasn't a problem."

"I know nothink," Blythe stepped back putting her hands up in surrender while sounding like Colonel Klink.

"What's on the agenda today?" Greg followed her through the front door.

"Not much. The bird's defrosting in the fridge. We have everything we need for tomorrow. So it's just a day of checking the list twice and making sure tomorrow goes off without a hitch."

Greg saw his aunt and Joanne enjoying the weather out on the deck. "I see the ladies are feeling better."

"Your miracle chicken soup did the trick."

"Don't let Dr. Cuddy know that. She'll make me try to cure my patients with it before figuring out their diagnoses."

"Then you wouldn't have to work so hard."

Greg leaned against the kitchen counter. "Getting the right diagnosis and curing a person are two different things."

"Hey!" Joanne bounced into the room absolutely bubbly.

"Hey, yourself. I see the hibernating bear has come out of the cave."

Jo frowned. She hated that he saw her at a low point. The fact that he was making jokes about it didn't make her feel any better. "Your aunt would like to see you on the deck." She wasn't exuberant anymore.

Greg pushed off the counter and headed out. "See ya in a bit," he said casually.

Aunt Sarah was reclining on a big lounger, looking out at the Hollywood Sign in the distance. She held out her arms, expecting her nephew to come over and kiss her hello. Greg obliged, somewhat awkwardly, with his height, her position and the damn cane in the way.

"Are you ever going to lose that thing," she asked curiously. Sure she knew and understood his life had changed inexplicably with the blood clot. It was a shame he was so dependent on the walking stick. He was too young to look so old.

"I'm too tall to use a crutch like Tiny Tim." Greg eased into a seat next to her lounger.

They seemed to both look out into the hills, wondering how they ended up in this place and time. Greg wasn't sure what he was feeling. It wasn't the same excitement he had felt traveling through the hills and seeing the valleys. It was like he was perched above it all, secluded and lonely.

"Greg?"

"Hmm." He turned away from the horizon, giving her his attention.

"Why are you so distant. For decades you've stayed away. Did I do something to make you angry with me?"

Greg's brow furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean?"

Sarah sat up. "You didn't want to come." She recognized his quick attempt to respond to the contrary. "No. Don't say anything just yet. Let me finish.

"For years you've been distant with your family. I don't know or want to know what happened between you and them. I want to know what happened between us. You and me."

She was pushing buttons, poking his inner censor. "I thought it was blatantly obvious, seeing how I haven't been invited to a dinner at your house since I was a kid." He hung his head shamefully, not wanting to have to relive one of the horrors of his childhood.

"That's not true. We've always invited your family - every year. For the most part, your father was stationed out of the country or couldn't make the trip. When you were off to school, I kept hearing from your father that you were to busy to come."

"Dad told you that?" Why was he surprised?

"And your mom."

"I guess that after I burned down your home in '66, I figured you didn't want me around." Greg shrugged, still ashamed.

"That was over forty years ago!"

"Uh huh."

"For goodness sakes, I hadn't thought about that in years. And you didn't burn down the house."

"Okay, so I burned down the kitchen and ruined the holiday."

"You didn't burn down the kitchen."

"Yes, I did. I was there."

"Greg, do you mean to tell me that we've been apart all these years because of a turkey?"

"No. We've been apart because of a fire I started."

Sarah was amazed. This revelation brought her to her feet. "Is that what you think? That it was all your fault?" She approached him in a very maternal way, arms outstretched offering a hug of comfort to him.

"Why would I think any different?" He realized that she might need the contact of the embrace as a way to forgive him, so he gave in and hugged her back.

She pushed him away slightly so she could look up into his face. "Although we couldn't see it that day, you were our hero. We had the fire inspector come in and check out the oven when things cooled down. We didn't think that having the heat turned all the way up should have started the fire. Especially since everything in the oven at the time was protected from dripping.

"It wasn't a grease fire, like everyone suspected. It was a faulty switch. If you hadn't turned it up that day, who knows when or how we would have found out about it. What if I was alone and roasting a chicken for your uncle? What if I was alone!"

Greg hugged her, but couldn't help snorting with derision. His father beat him, then kept truth about the fire from him. Forty wasted years thinking he had destroyed his relatives' lives. Years of avoiding Thanksgivings altogether just to numb himself from remembering the worst.

But it wasn't just that. How many other lies and excuses had his father made for him to keep him away from potentially embarrassing situations the Colonel didn't want to face? It was more painful to learn the truth than it was to endure the punishment. Was this why his patients told lies? Was the truth more painful than the consequences of the lie? At this moment it seemed so.

"Let's not dwell on the past any longer," Sarah suggested.

Gut reaction for Greg was to say something derogatory. He held his tongue. He could find a way to make peace with himself and Aunt Sarah now. It didn't completely eradicate the anxiety from the situation, yet a depression seemed to settle in somewhere at his core. The 'coulda', 'shoulda', 'woulda' beens raced through his brain. So many lost years. His life had been built on failures slightly overshadowed by his accomplishments.

There had to be a silver lining in all of this. What had he told his shrink? That successes were only as good as long as they weren't disproved and became failures? That failures were forever? If that seemed logically true by his account, then now did this perceived failure looked on as a blessing, fit in the grand scheme of things? It was overwhelming to fathom at the moment. He had to distract himself, and quickly.


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty-Three

He had somehow managed to escape his aunt's presence. Back in the house he approached the kitchen in search of his nap sack. His leg was starting to ache, and so was his head. The look in his eyes didn't bode well.

"Have you seen my bag? I need to take some pills."

Blythe walked to the front hallway to retrieve it for him. She returned, handing it over. "You should take it easy for the day."

Greg shot her a warning look. "I've got a motorcycle at my disposal. I plan on spending the day riding and exploring."

"Are you planning on going alone?" She was worried.

"Of course not," he smiled.

His mom poured him a glass of water while he extracted his medication. He took it dutifully, then followed her into the living room. Joanne was already there watching some talk show-news type program. She didn't even pay attention to him when he sat next to her.

He waited until a commercial break before addressing her. "So, I was wondering if you'd like to accompany me on a bike ride along Mulholland Drive.

She frowned with consternation. "You can ride? I mean with your leg and all, I thought it would be a bit of a strain."

"I've got a specialized bike."

Jo was even more confused. "I don't know if I'm up to that kind of trek. I'm only good for a few miles."

Now it was Greg's turn to be puzzled.

Blythe was grinning widely. "You're on different pages. Perhaps you should show her your bike."

"Maybe later," Jo nodded. "I'm in the middle of things in my head."

"And I've got to let my painkillers kick in before I go out for the day."

"If you're in pain, then you should probably get some rest," Sarah said.

"My shr-my colleagues think I should stop letting my leg calendar what I can and cannot do. So I've been following their advice."

"You were fine on Monday and yesterday, why should today be any different," Jo noted.

"Well yesterday wasn't actually a good day for me either. But at least I got out of bed," he teased.

"Excuse me!" Jo got up and headed to her room.

"She's a little touchy," Greg conceded.

"You were a little brusque," Aunt Sarah chided.

Greg looked to his mother for back up. She just nodded her head in encouragement.

He sighed heavily before starting. "Pain affects people differently. Some folks withdraw, some whine and moan…I get cranky and smart-mouthed."

"I couldn't tell," she said deadpan.

Greg sniggered. "I'm mean and cranky. I'm working on less mean, but I'm thinking of hanging on to cranky a little while longer."

"You were always a precocious child; now you're a precocious adult," Sarah teased.

"He's one step short of senile," Blythe chided.

"Thank-you. That does wonders for my self-esteem."

"Here's a helpful hint, maybe you should stop worrying about how you feel and think about JoJo." Sarah winked.

Greg scratched behind one ear as he thought about it. "Yeah, I guess I should say something." He got up and went to her door.

She heard his thumping gate approaching and opened her door just as he was about to knock.

"What do you want?"

"To talk to you. To tell you I'm an ass."

"At least you know it."

He smiled. "Yeah. But it doesn't change anything. I'll always say stupid and insensitive things without thinking. It's what makes me so charming."

Jo cracked a smile. "You're something, alright." Charming was far from it.

"Let's go for a ride. We can talk in private," Greg suggested.

"Are you sure you're up for it?"

"Riding relaxes me. Makes me feel less cranky."

She hesitated. Greg took the opportunity to steal a kiss.

"There's more to come if you want it."

Once she got over the initial shock that the bike ride was in fact on a motorcycle, Joanne understood what Blythe had meant. She was a bit hesitant to get on the back of the bike, having never ridden one before.

"It'll be fine," Greg urged.

"What do I do?"

"Grab me tight around the waist and hang on for dear life."

"That sounds very reassuring," she watched him mount, then followed suit.

Greg smiled happily as she pressed herself into his back. "Lean when I lean," he called out over his shoulder.

"What?" She couldn't hear with the helmet on.

Greg started the motor and took it slow down the hill. Since she had never ridden before, he didn't want to scare her half to death until after they got out on the so-called open road.

At the intersection of Mulholland and Laurel Canyon Boulevard, they headed west. Jo wasn't sure where he was taking her, but flying along the top of the canyons was nerve wracking. She thought about getting him to stop, to tell him it wasn't such a good idea. She was too nervous and getting nauseated.

Greg seemed to sense her apprehension and pulled off onto a scenic overlook. He waited for her to dismount before he kicked out the stand and rested the Honda on it. They took off their helmets in unison.

"This is an incredible view. I want you to tell me what I'm looking at."

Jo stepped up next to him to see what he was referring to. It was a little too close to the edge for her.

"That's Coldwater Canyon down there."

Greg sat down, making himself comfortable as he looked out over the landscape. "What's that clump of buildings over there?" He was pointing to a group of sky scrapers in the middled of flatland.

"That's Century City. Home to Fox Studios. Just before that is Beverly Hills. Behind it is Culver City."

"It's very peaceful up here. Feels like being on top of the world." Greg wrapped his arms around his knees and raised his face to the sun.

"It's nice to have warmth this time of year. I don't miss the northeast winters."

He was surprised to hear that she had spent time out east. "College?"

"That's where I met my ex-husband thirty years ago. He was from Buffalo. Stayed out there until the divorce."

"When did you split?" Greg hoped her interest in him wasn't because she was rebounding.

"It's been a couple of years."

"Any prospects since?"

"Dated a few guys, but I'm not looking for a relationship where I'm going to be slaving after someone. I have my own life to live."

"I see," Greg said suspiciously.

"What does that mean? She looked to see what his body language was telegraphing.

"You're not looking. I'm not looking. And yet the powers that be seem to think we make a nice pairing."

"Quid pro quo. You ever been married?"

"Nope. Lived with someone once." He liked that she was playing his game. "Been a free agent for a dozen years."

"Why do you think they've decided to play match maker now?"

"I've got my suspicions, but there aint no way I'm going to become a daddy just to carry on the family line." He harrumphed for emphasis.

"Wow. Did you actually get the 'make me a grandma' plea?"

"Yep." He smirked. "Can you imagine me as a father?"

"Would it be the worst thing that ever happened?"

"I'm not daddy material. Hell, I'm not even husband material." He continued to look out over the county to where the sun was making the ocean look like liquid silver.

"Why are you so tough on yourself? You've never been a husband or a father, so you can't really know."

Greg put his arm around her. "There's a lot about me you don't know and wouldn't want to know."

"Well, aside for the fact that you seem to be miserable most of the time, I can't imagine there'd be much worse." She leaned into his shoulder. "I could make assumptions about why you are the way you are. But it wouldn't change things."

"Most of the people I know want me to change. And to an extent I've modified my behavior to try to not be as mean as I've been know to be. I can't just change who I've been for the last half of a century."

He was rambling a bit, making Jo wonder if he was really just thinking out loud. "Greg, can I ask you a real, serious question?"

He pulled away in order to see her face. "Shoot."

"Do you love yourself?"

He looked away, hurt by the fact that, she too, thought he was a narcissist.

"Do you even like yourself? Do you like who you are as a person?"

She wasn't asking if he was in love with himself. Greg pulled her closer. "There are parts of me I like. But mostly…no."

She kissed him. "Thank-you for being honest, at least."

He kissed her back. "I'm sorry I've been teasing you about yesterday. I have days like that as well."

"How do you get through them?"

"Same way you do."

They both laughed, Greg rubbing his hand up and down her arm, just happy to be with a kindred spirit.

And just as easily as their happiness came, it dissipated to an awkward silence.

"I wish Jersey was like this all year long."

Jo wasn't sure if he meant the weather or the state of being they were sharing.

"You like it here?"

"I like having a friend like you close by."

She looked up to him with much adoration. "I'm going to miss you too." She felt the tears welling in her eyes.

He turned to see her face, expecting to see a sarcastic grin. But all he saw was sadness.

"Don't tell me you've got feelings for me already." It was accusatory.

"I'm a silly girl. My hormones are running wild."

"Or maybe you just smell my pheromones." He leaned in, planting a lingering, sensual kiss on her mouth.

Jo pulled away needing air. "Who wouldn't be attraction to you. You're like a magnet pulling me in."

"I can't help it," Greg said with lips reaching for hers.

"We should move on."

He got to his feet dragging her up afterwards. Once on the bike it was clear she trusted him more, her need to cling to him lessened; their bodies in sync swaying through the curves. Greg was thinking about them - the potential beginning of a relationship with her. There wouldn't be much to think about if she lived in Princeton or Trenton, or anywhere in the tri-state area for that matter. But a long distance affair wouldn't last for him. Without her constant presence, he would grow away from her, feel disconnected from her life.

And surely she would feel the say way. Joanne wanted a companion. He could give her that, as long as she didn't need to know his every move or occupy his every free minute. So far it seemed she needed her alone time too. Could they survive a close companionship? So far it seemed possible. Except for that pesky long distance thing.

There were enough good looking guys out there to keep her company.  
>But most of them were looking for the same thing: a piece of ass and a maid. He didn't need that from her. Well, not the maid bit as much. And she was more than tail. He respected her. And yet he barely knew her. Things were moving too quickly. Greg needed to step back and re-evaluate his feeling.<p>

"You're quiet."

"I get this way when I'm thinking."

She wanted to ask what he was thinking about, but she knew if he wanted her to know, he'd say something. Greg didn't need to be nagged. He needed his space and to do things in his own time.

"You got anything going on at Christmas?"

"I'd wait until you get through Thanksgiving first before you try to get yourself invited to Christmas Dinner."

He turned and smiled. "I was thinking about you coming to Princeton for Christmas."

"I usually spend that holiday with my mom and dad."

"Okay, what about New Years?"

"I'll see what I have on the calendar."

"I guess that's all I can hope for." Greg got to his feet and brushed off his rear end. "You ready to head out?"

"Where to now?" Jo got up and stretched before getting on the back of the motorcycle.

"No place in particular. I thought we'd just ride for a while."

They headed west until reaching a particularly breathtaking view. At the top of Mulholland at Benedict Canyon near Beverly Glen you could see for miles in all directions. Greg was tempted to turn down Benedict and take her to his hotel room. It would be amazing to have her again; but he didn't want her to think that all he wanted was sex. She meant more to him than that.

Greg pulled the motorcycle into another overlook point. Jo could fee the tension in his back. Something was bothering him. She scrambled off the bike so he could get off without having to wait.

It was like he forgot she was there. Greg limped to the split rail fence that separated him from a fall that would mean certain death. He was conflicted and confused as to why he felt so connected to Joanne in such a short time. The words 'kindred spirit' kept surfacing, but what did that really mean?

Greg stared out over the San Fernando Valley. It was so expansive, yet only a spec on the map compared to the rest of the state. Even thought it was bordered by mountains and the sea, the valley felt endless, like the abyss he as experiencing in his chest. He just couldn't stop thinking about Jo.

He glanced to his right and she was standing close by; only a foot away. Jo looked at what he was viewing. She was patient. With the world. With him. By now any other woman would have annoyed him to death with the 'what's wrong' and 'talk to me' nagging. She was so not the norm of anyone he knew.

Joanne observed him in silence. He distanced himself from her. It left a void as wide as the chasm below them. She could sense the turmoil just beneath the surface. They were moving along at a fast clip then screeched to a halting silence. She had to admit, they were moving toward a relationship rather quickly. Three days was not enough time to know somebody in order to make more than a friendship happen. Greg seemed to have come to the same conclusion with the invite to Princeton.

She wanted to accept immediately, but somehow that's probably not what he would have expected. Jo didn't want to appear over eager and desperate. She was far from it. Yet having Greg around made her feel alive. He got that she was independent; although she could easily see herself becoming clingy and jealous if another woman flirted with him. Was she really only looking for companionship?

"I loved my ex-husband," she said absently, "but I wasn't in love with him."

Greg wasn't sure why Jo had chosen to tell him that or what she expected to hear in response. He chose to keep his mouth shut, hoping that was the right thing to do.

"Have you ever been in love? I mean you know, felt the lust, the desire, the want?"

Obviously she did want him to say something. Greg didn't want to answer her question. Mostly because he wasn't sure. It had been so long since he was in love, capturing the feeling in words was next to impossible. There was nothing he could say. What Jo was alluding to wasn't unfamiliar, as he was experiencing some of those feeling with her. At least it felt that way. The last thing he wanted to say was that he was in love with her.

Joanne felt herself frowning. Did she want him to say that he had feelings for her like she did for him? For god sakes, they had only known each other for three days. Why was she thinking like this? It was not like her to feel this attraction to anyone so quickly.

"We should probably head out and get something to eat." For the lack of wanting to talk about relationships, Greg changed the subject.

Jo headed toward the bike, slipping the helmet back over her head. It wasn't how she hoped the afternoon was going to end. She was glad to have a dark visor to hide the disappointment on her face.

Greg got on, waiting patiently for her to climb aboard before kicking off toward Beverly Glen, and this time, the San Fernando Valley side of things. The road down was steep, winding at the top yet twisting in to a straight away a quarter of the way down. The bike picked up speed on its own, Greg leaning forward with Jo against his back like a champion racer. It forced Jo to hang on for dear life; something she wasn't expecting to have to do, since she wanted to start putting physical and emotional distance between herself and Greg.

He turned onto Ventura Boulevard heading back toward Hollywood. It would be a nice drive, stop and go, along the ridge of the Hollywood Hills. That was until he hung a left on Woodman Avenue and raced up to the 101 Freeway entrance. Greg knew where he was going; but Jo wondered if he knew how dangerous freeway driving on the 101 could be for a motorcyclist. It was not something she'd ever suggest or take part in willingly. But now it was too late to stop him as he drove up the acceleration ramp and merged into traffic.

Damn, he was good. He didn't have to split a lane or weave through cars. The power of the bike was enough to overcome the obstacles, and the skill of the driver more than evident. Greg was one with the bike and the road.

They sped along with traffic, merging into the carpool lane where he was able to open up the throttle and zoom along at speeds close to 80 mph. Joanne gripped his midsection as tight as humanly possible, making it difficult for him to take a deep breath, if he needed. Greg smiled to himself, liking the speed and the danger-all while having a woman holding him.

It made the rest of the trek through the Cahuenga Pass enjoyable, even though traffic started to back up. A sign indicated the next seven exits all led to Hollywood. Greg merged through six lanes in order to get far enough right to exit at Hollywood Boulevard.

They zipped up the ramp heading west until they reached Vine. He took it all in at the traffic light. The Palladium. The Pantages. The new W Hotel. The infamous corner where William "Fred Mertz" Frawley dropped dead of a heart attack in front of his apartment building. It was the original center of Hollywood - long before the Hollywood & Highland entertainment complex was built drawing crowds further west.

The light changed and he directed the motorbike south down Vine to Sunset. Another right and they were passing the Cinerama Dome and Arclight Theatre complex, followed by Amoeba Records and the CNN building. A few more blocks and he was pulling the bike over to the curb and shutting it down.

Greg waited for Jo to dismount before he got off. Simultaneously they removed their helmets. Greg couldn't help but smile at Jo's look of…what was it really? Surprise? Fear? Amazement?

"Are you okay?" He tried to hold back his laughter and amusement.

"I'd appreciate a little advance warning before you take me on a death ride down the freeway."

"Sorry," he said, continuing to enjoy her discomfort.

"Sure you are," she said surly. "You just wanted me to hold you tight."

Greg continued to grin. He grabbed her hand and tried to drag her across the street.

"Hey, hey! We're j-walking. That's a hundred and twenty-four dollar fine."

"I'm a crip. I need to not walk to the nearest intersection to cross."

She dragged him back. "People drive like assholes around here. I don't feel like scraping your splattered butt off the street the day before Thanksgiving."

"Alright, already." He headed back to the curb, somewhat relieved that he hadn't committed to the crossing. His leg had decided to resist the brisk pace needed to hoof it across four lanes in a hurry. The exaggerated limp was not lost on Joanne. Perhaps his pain had been agitated by the vibrations of the bike. If so, why did he put himself through such torture?

"You coming?" Greg was irritated that she just stood there watching him gimp away.

"Just admiring the view," she teased.

He tried to look over his shoulder a his bum. "You should see the front view. It's spectacular."

Jo huffed, hurrying toward his waiting figure. "You're incorrigible."

"Like I said, I'm spectacular."

"You're something, alright." He grabbed her hand. "Where are we going?"

"Across the street."

"Across the street where?"

Greg pointed to a sign hanging over at pole protruding from a wall. "There."

"The Cat and Fiddle?"

"A real, authentic British Pub."

"Why here?"

"Fish and chips, Cornish pasty, bangers and mash, ploughman's lunch, and of course, Shepherd's pie."

"Planning on comparing it with mine?"

"Got a hankering for Welsh rarebit."

"I used to think it was Welsh rabbit. I thought 'poor itty, bitty bunnies on toast points' was a sad lunch. Who would want to eat that?"

They both started laughing as they walked through the restaurant's courtyard. "We could eat out here," Greg offered.

"Let's check out inside. Wouldn't want anyone mistaking you for that Hugh fella again."

"Lord knows, all I want to do is eat in peace and talk."

Just inside the door they were subjected to an undistinguishable round of singing. The televisions over the bar were streaming soccer games. It was hard to see past the banner hanging to ascertain who or what was causing the ruckus.

From the lettering on the reverse side of the flag, Greg could only guess it was the Tottenham Football Club of North London. A harangued waitress led them to a table by the bar. He noted the rowdy bunch was really only four guys having a grand ole time. Two of the blokes were about Greg's age. It was nice to know that he wasn't the only party animal left in his generation.

Joanne tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention. "It's a bit overwhelmingly loud in here."

Greg flagged the waitress over. "We'd like to sit outside instead."

"Go for it," she shouted over the din.

What a difference twenty yards made. It was as if the Tottenham banner absorbed all sound, keeping it from permeating beyond the door.

"Ah, much better," Jo took her fingers out of her ears.

"Now we can talk." Greg relaxed, leaning back in the metal mesh chair.

Joanne didn't know where to start. Relationships were always a difficult topic to approach.

"In answer to your questions, I loved one woman, once. Lived with her five years before I crashed and burned. And I have been in love with the same woman for about twenty years now. The first woman, well, the very first woman, Lisa, I've been in love with, but never truly loved. I wanted to keep the in love feeling, even when we hooked up a while ago. But she wanted a domesticated version of me - one that doesn't exist. I am a creature of habit, like a stray cat getting it's milk wherever it's handed out. She wanted to tame me and put me on a leash. I liked being in love with her, but I never loved her.

"Stacey, the other woman, well…there wasn't a lot of time to be in love with her. Our relationship happened quickly. We loved each other. She needed more than that. Maybe she was in love with me, too, and I never realized that."

"It's hard to survive a relationship that doesn't have anywhere to go. You love someone without being in love, and life becomes banal. And if you're just in love, it's like a teenager on hormones needing sexual release. Having both must be amazing."

"So you haven't had both?"

"Nope."

"Are you still looking for that duplicity?"

It was Joanne's turn to relax and let it all out. "I'm not looking for anything but companionship. If get love, in any way, shape or form, then bonus for me."

"So you have no expectations." Greg rested his elbow on the table and his chin on his hand.

"I'd be lying if I said yes." She saw Greg's look of skepticism. "It's natural to want some form of relationship with another human being; especially if it's more than a casual friendship. At some level it's a partnership full of give and take, like it or not."

Greg thought about it. Could he be the companion she needed, and yet be comfortable with her need for such a deep relationship? He didn't do 'in love' love or even friendship well. He always managed to screw it up. Why? What was it about his character that kept him from giving himself fully to anyone. Mistrust? Why were the walls forged so high and so thickly?

"Gee, don't give yourself a brain hernia thinking so hard."

"Huh, wha?" Greg shook his head clear.

"It doesn't take a rocket scientist or a degree in psychology to know you have some deep seeded issues. Hell, if it was possible, I'd believe you capable of creating a physical force field around yourself. The only way I know it's not true is that I can touch you without being repelled."

"Or electrocuted," Greg stared at her with a deadpan expression. "I mean, if I could have a force field, I'd electrify it."

"I want to come to Princeton for Christmas. I want to get to know you in your own element; see how you act with people you know. All that fun stuff."

"It'll be cold."

"I own gloves and boots."

"I may get caught up with my work and have to leave you on your own."

"I'm a big girl. I think I can handle it."

"What if you hate what you discover?" House raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips.

"Eh, New York City is only a short train ride away." She sipped at her drink to avoid saying more.

"So you have no qualms about leaving me?" He took her seriously.

"From the sounds of it, you plan on leaving me to fend for myself."

"Not intentionally."

"I don't doubt that. But perhaps that's why all your relationships go to pot. You pick your career before your life."

"That's where you're wrong. My career is my life. It's the only thing I can't lose…well, I mean I could lose my job, but I'll always have my knowledge and experience."

"No wonder you're lonely. You set yourself to fail by forgetting to live outside the box you built to keep the ethereal things in. What happens if you lose your sanity, or god forbid, suffer a traumatic head injury that leaves your brain mush?"

"Or even worse, makes me mediocre?" Greg's stomach soured with her words. He had to get last thought out so she wouldn't know how close she had cut him to the bone.


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter Twenty-Four

"Where have you two been all day?" Blythe asked lightly. She didn't want to seem nosey, but not asking felt impolite.

"Just riding around," Greg answered nonchalantly.

"I feel all dusty and smoggy. I'm going to take a shower," Joanne announced. "You can take one after me, if you want."

Blythe could not help but smile broadly at her son.

"What?" He asked sheepishly.

"You two are really hitting it off."

"Less than you would think." Greg gimped over to the fridge and grabbed a Coke. He fished in his pocket for more Advil and proceeded to dump a few on his tongue. He followed with a cola chaser.

"Why don't you sit down and tell me about it." She was hoping to have a nice chat with her son.

"How's Aunt Sarah?"

"Gregory, don't try to change the subject. She's fine. We did a little shopping and now she's taking a nap."

Greg chugged the rest of his drink, then let out a huge burp.

"My goodness, you can take the man out of New Jersey, but you can't take the boy out of the man."

He blushed. "Sorry. I'm used to the bachelor life."

"Honestly, Greg, you're a guest in someone's house. Have some manners."

"I promise not to embarrass you during dinner tomorrow. Okay?" He gave her his best 'I'll be a good boy' look.

Blythe grinned, shaking her head with his antics.

"Right now, I have to call Jimmy and see what he's having for dinner tomorrow."

Greg walked out onto the deck for a little privacy. There he stared out at the Hollywood Sign while his call was connected.

"House!" Wilson was happy to hear from him.

"'Sup homeboy?" Greg turned his back on the window and leaned on the railing.

"Same shit, different day."

"How are things at work?" House just realized he hadn't thought about the hospital in days.

"The usual. How's Cali?"

"It's nice out here. No local snow, not much rain, and I rented a bike; so I've been riding around, seeing the sights."

"How are the women?"

"Fine."

"Just fine?"

"We were right. There was an ulterior motive for coming out here," Greg couldn't wait to tell him about Jo.

"Is she hot?"

"First let's talk about your Thanksgiving plans. Any prospects?"

James laughed. "Dinner with Cuddy, Rachel and her mom."

"Nice." House could imagine the little scene.

"So this woman. She the one we saw you on TV with?"

House's smile faded. "You saw that? Gawd, how embarrassing."

"Cuddy almost died laughing. We all knew it was you. How'd you pull it off?"

"Case of mistaken identity. The paparazzi are crazy out here."

"So, back to the woman."

"Geez, clam down. I can hear you salivating. You're iPhone's not insured against salivation damage."

"Ha, ha. Are the two of you hitting it off?"

Greg shifted his weight. "I was going to give you the full scoop, but now I'm not sure."

"You planted a big kiss on her for the cameras."

"That was a ruse." Greg smiled to himself remembering how it felt to kiss her for the first time.

"Riiight. Well, it was very convincing." Wilson enjoyed ribbing his friend.

"Yet everyone laughed."

"You, a famous movie star? Not hardly."

"Yeah, most hated doctor on the East Coast and every here loves me."

"That's because they don't know you."

Greg turned around to lean against the rail and look into the house. Jo had just walked into the kitchen clad in yoga pants and a tank top. She looked radiant; and if she wasn't standing next to his mother chatting, he could have easily thought of things to do with her on the island countertop.

Jo noticed him staring at her. It was nice that should could captivate his attention just by entering the room.

"…House, House, you still there?"

Greg had forgotten about his call. His thoughts were elsewhere. "Kkkchhhker, is…sss…ber…up." He hung up, feeling obligated as Jo was making quacking duck finger movements to indicate he was talking too much. In actuality, he was listening too much. Well, not listening, more like having the phone to his ear.

Jo beckoned him in. She wanted to talk to him, just to hear his voice. He could say anything…it all affected her ears the same way.

Greg didn't want to go in there. Not with his mom watching. He jerked his head, motioning her to come to him.

She continued her conversation with Blythe while filling two tall glasses with ice and water. It was her alibi to excuse herself, as she mentioned that Greg looked thirsty.

Although Mrs. House politely nodded, Greg could see the smile of triumph on her face. Jo saw it, too. The next four days were going to be strange as every time they rendezvoused, someone in his family was going to further speculate on their relationship. It was only them for now. Who knew if her family was privy to the set up or not.

Greg's curiosity was torturing him. Jo barely got out the door onto the deck before the questions flew. "What do your parents know about me?"

"What do you mean?"

"Like my mom and Aunt, are your mom and dad trying to hook us up, too?"

"Basically they know who you are and that you're here, but they didn't mention anything suspicious."

"No hints or innuendos?"

"Nope. And as far as I know, they haven't had regular contact with your mom or aunt since before your dad passed on."

Greg nodded, pleased that Thanksgiving dinner would not be as awkward as he feared.

"Greg, even though your mother and your aunt worry about you're marital status a little too much, they realize that you don't need to have a wife at your side to survive."

"Really?" Greg's eyebrows arched with his sarcasm. "And you know this because?"

"What do you think we do when you're not here?"

She was smiling coyly, making Greg a tad nervous. Did he really think they existed in a bubble in his absence?

"Don't look so mortified. It's not like we sit around and scheme. Casual conversation tends to bring you up as a point of interest." She cocked her head and gave him that 'I know what you're thinking and you're wrong' look. I spend a lot of time refocusing their attention to the fact that you are probably not as lonely and curmudgeonly as they think you to be."

"Curmudgeonly, huh?" He raised his brow, making him look seductive enough to roll on the deck right there and then have her way with him.

Without a thought for prying eyes, Greg stepped over to her, put his arm around her and held her in a one-armed embrace. It was a comfortable action that surprised the both of them, especially since Greg was somewhat opposed to public displays of affection. For Jo it was reassurance that he liked her enough to step out of his comfort zone.

"What are you thinking," he asked softly as he looked at her features.

"I'm trying not to read anything into this."

Greg continued to drink her in without saying anything.

"It's hard though. I like you. And I like the physical contact…I think you like me, as well. And yet, there's still a huge chasm between us."

Physical proximity was not his strong suit. The walls he had put in place to protect himself from caring about his patients had crossed over into his personal life. Years of sexual release with hookers was enough to sate his urges without attachment. These emotional pain management techniques worked perfectly for his needs. But when someone he wanted threatened to get closer, he couldn't turn it off. With each life force that wanted to reach out to him, his defenses strengthened.

Barred access usually turned the entity away. No questions asked. No searches for back doors or escape hatches.

It was possible Joanne would be different. She recognized the distance for what it was. She spoke about it as a tangible thing and not in ultimatums. She didn't ask him to drop his defenses, nor did she demand to be let in, unconditionally.

"Time," he mumbled.

"It always takes time. That's where relationships go wrong. One person is usually unwilling to wait as long as necessary to forge the bonds of trust and friendship before pressuring the other to approach the precipice and either jump off or push the other over."

"That was very intuitive."

She looked down at her feet. "Experiential."

"I've built a huge citadel around myself. Spent the last ten years of so operating through a secret window in my castle keep. Only one or two people in my life know how to get a message in."

"Thank-you." Jo hugged him tighter, daring to stretch up and put a dainty kiss on his cheek.

"For what?"

"For coming out of your hidey-hole and showing me a side of you I'm betting is rarely seen."

Greg snorted back his contentment. "It's easy when there are no expectations."

She got quiet again.

"What did I say?" He didn't think there was any ill intent in his words.

"Nothing. I just realized that it must be pretty tough being a doctor of your stature and feeling like you have to diagnose the disease or you're no more special than all of the others. There is a lot of pressure from those kinds of expectations."

Wow, she really understood him without him having to explain it. Greg sighed. Only two other women in his life had a sense of him. He had lost both of them to men of weaker mental strength and wit. Was it because they both needed to be the all-around stronger person in their relationships?

Stacey wanted to be needed. Cuddy needed to be needed. Both had to have the last say. He neither needed nor wanted to be needed. But he always had to have the last word. Could that change? Was he willing to let it happen?

Joe reached up with her hand to massage the deep crease between his eyebrows. "Stop frowning."

"But I'm smiling."

"You're eyes are frowning."

Greg grabbed her hand and kissed the base of her thumb. "You're turning me on."

"Nice to know I have that power." Jo licked her lips seductively.

"Stop." It was less a command and more a suggestion to something else, without much innuendo.

"I can't stop liking you or stop feeling how I feel."

"I'm not asking you to…I don't want you to." He was rubbing the palm of her hand with his thumb. They were close enough to be dancing without music.

Jo found herself unable to look away from him.

"I'm not nice. I don't do social situations well."

"I like you the way you are," she whispered.

"I've heard that before."

"I'm sure you have," she giggled, nuzzling his earlobe.

"If we do this, you'll end up hating me."

"You know what they say. 'Tis better to love and lose than to never have loved at all."

"You may not believe that in the end," Greg said sadly.


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

Greg lay in bed with the lights off even though he was wide awake. It was difficult for him to stop thinking about Joanne. She was different in ways he couldn't wrap his mind around. He couldn't decide if she was more like a female version of Wilson or a calmer version of Stacey. She was definitely nothing like Cuddy.

He turned on his side with a bit of frustration. Comparing Joanne to anyone he knew wasn't fair to her or himself. Greg realized he was trying to fit the new woman in his life into pre-existing molds of personalities he had experiences with. If he wasn't careful, he'd find himself trying to force a square peg into a round hole.

Furthermore, by comparing her to what was familiar to him, he would eventually thrust upon her the expectations he had of those people he identified her with.

Greg settled onto his back and groaned. No wonder his relationships failed at the start. He expected people to act in a certain way; and when they didn't he was disappointed. No, not in them, but in himself for pegging them to be one way and finding out that weren't. He was wrong.

Being wrong was okay-as long as the next step got you closer to being less wrong, or even right. Yet somehow in relationships, it wasn't so easy. Usually by the time he ceased the self-castigation, it was too late to repair the damage to the relationship.

Why could he never realize this before? The more he tried to rationalize the patterns, the less he understood his own intentions. Two questions circled his mind. The first was if he really wanted a serious relationship with the person in question. And the second, more important one: did he deserve it?

Nolan would be proud of him for analyzing the situation so rationally. The psychiatrist would also ask him what he thought he got from Joanne that made him look at his situation differently than he had all the others. Even more so, he'd probe further to get under his patient's skin to explore what Greg hoped to get from her.

Why was she different? He had been pissy. And she laughed. He had been rude. And she laughed. He was himself, no holds barred. And she was still interested. She wasn't judgmental. And aside from the great sex, she didn't need to dote on him or irritate him with the need to know his every move or what he was thinking. They could be together and content without needing to say anything.

Greg was smiling when he finally fell asleep. His mind was a peace thinking only of the interactions he shared with Joanne out on the deck. The feel of her body close to his was like that of a security blanket swaddling him from the negative thoughts and activities that usually pervaded his actions for the worse. That comfort lulled him; kept him safe from the dreams that usually escalated to nightmares.

The nothingness of darkness behind closed eyes was disturbed slightly by a muscle twinge. For a brief period of time the only conscious systems of Greg's body were his brain and his ears. Once the absence of a foreign presence wasn't detected, his ears went deaf and the brain drifted off. Until another twinge made his right foot jerk.

Greg turned on his side, his body's subconscious way of taking pressure off nerves that caused the spasm. It worked long enough for sleep to approach again. But it seemed to minute he was asleep, another physical distraction would occur.

This time it was more than a twitch. It felt like someone set his hip on fire. No matter how he moved, there was no relief, only painful discomfort exacerbated by the heated, sandy grittiness he felt in his joints.

The ibuprofen bottle was on the night stand. He took six. Twelve hundred milligrams should tame the inflammation enough for sleep to come again. Greg suffered through the agony until the pills kicked in.

And then two hours later, he was in agony once again. The only other thing he could try was a hot bath. He sat up, letting his legs adjust to the pain before sliding them over the mattress. His right side resisted, forcing him to move more slowly than he liked. He had to support his thigh with both hands.

Standing was going to be a bitch. Greg took a few deep, cleansing breaths before rising to his feet. Three quarters of the way to standing, he realized it wasn't going to end particularly pleasantly. He only hoped the landing would be soft.

When his right leg buckled beneath him, he hissed more in frustration than pain. He had been having a pretty good week, so far. Why did he have to be hurting now? There was no emotional turmoil. In fact, he felt great, except for the damn spasms.

With gritted teeth, he grabbed on to the edge of the bed, forcing himself up. He massaged his thigh mercilessly, hoping to loosen the knots enough to make the arduous journey to the bathroom. If this was any indication of how today was going to unfold, it bode ill omen.

After a long soak in the hot bath, Greg was able to get some rest. His leg, as well as he body, felt weak, but he chalked it up to exhaustion. He called down to the front desk to change his wake up call to four hours later than originally planned. If he was going to be in any shape to get through the day, he needed a few decent hours of sleep.


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter Twenty – Six

The taxi pulled up to the Johnston residence close to noon. Blythe House had been waiting for any sign of her son's arrival. She was worried. The several calls she placed to his hotel and cell phone went unanswered. It was unlike him not to call back when he was expected to arrive earlier.

Greg exited getting slowly to his feet and leaning noticeably heavily on his cane. The ten yards from the curb up the driveway to the front door seemed like a football field full of land mines. Each step he took sent jarring pain through his right side from his foot to his head.

Blythe opened the door for her son. "Bad day?"

He raised his head. "That's an understatement."

"Well, I won't tell you to be nice. I guess I'll have to run interference." She rubbed his back as he passed by her.

Joanne wiped her hands on a dish towel as she approached to welcome him. Her vivacious smile dissipated upon seeing his condition.

"You look like hell."

"Gee, thanks." Greg shrugged out of his coat.

"Ooh, what a grouch."

"Greg's feeling under the weather," Blythe explained futilely.

"I need to sit," he said softly so only his mother could hear.

"Come into the living room and relax. I'll make you a cup of tea."

"Is it going to be red again?"

The playfulness of his tone was replaced with a mean sarcasm. She knew her son was in pain and hated that very little to nothing could be done to prevent or alleviate it. It wasn't easy to accept, and she barely understood why stronger pain management was out of the equation, but she did comprehend that it changed his ability to cope with his world when he was hurting this badly.

Joanne brought tea to him before he had settled into the nearest chair.

"There's an ottoman in the corner." She set the tray down and proceeded to retrieve the footstool.

"You don't have to slave over me." Greg tried to keep the edge from his voice but failed.

"You're right. I don't' have to. But I want to."

His agitation concussed her, making it hard for her to ignore his mood. She didn't want to appear overly sympathetic as well. Blythe warned her that she had yet to experience his bad side.

"The phrase 'hell hath no fury like a young woman scorned' is child's play when it comes to Greg's orneriness. Pain only magnifies it."

At the time Greg's mom was divulging this information, Jo didn't think much of it. But now that he was displaying some of the crankiness, she realized she hardly knew him at all. How often was he in pain? How long did these bouts last? Could she suffer through with him?

With the leg rest in place, both she and Blythe attempted to help him get his legs up.

"No!" He shouted with great force and trepidation.

They both jumped back. They could only struggled with their emotions while watching him support his thigh with two hands and lift his leg to rest on the hassock.

"Would a heating pad help? Or maybe and ice pack?"

"Don't baby me!" His eyes flashed anger.

Jo wasn't abashed. She couldn't take it personally as what she saw was not anger directed toward herself, but a loathing for his own helplessness.

"You need something stronger than Advil. I'll check my medicine cabinet."

"I can't have anything stronger," he murmured. "I can't tolerate it." Greg was censoring, trying to control his temper amidst the pain. It wasn't easy.

"Do you want to lay down on my bed?"

"Enough already. Let me settle in and deal with this my way."

"Okay," she said a little hurt. "I just want you to know you have options."

"Options," he snorted with derision. "They're band-aids only. My only option is to suffer."

Jo gave Blythe a concerned look. Greg's mom responded with one of her own. This prompted Jo to head for her bathroom in search of anything that might help.

Aunt Sarah made her first appearance of the day. She was moving slowly, but that was mostly because she was tired and weak. When she saw her nephew looking miserable and despondent, she couldn't keep from inquiring as to his health. "Greg, what's wrong?"

"Having a bad day." He tried to soften his voice, but it didn't have the effect he hoped.

"No need to be snippy. If you're hurting, you should take something."

"I did. It isn't as effective as I'd hoped."

"I've got some codeine pills the doctor gave me."

A sinister grin turned up the corners of his lips.

"I take it you'd like one or two." She made to return to her room.

"I can't."

"Don't worry, you won't set me back any."

"Please, I can't take them."

There was a desperation in his voice that stopped her in her tracks. Both she and his mom looked at him with curiosity, which Greg mistook as pity.

"Don't look at me like I'm an invalid."

"Why would you choose to be in pain if you knew a few pills would make it go away?"

Jo returned to the living room after listening to their conversation. His adamant refusal to accept any pain relief in pill form got her thinking. She approached him cautiously, kneeling at his side before pressing two caplets in his palm. "They'll take the edge off."

He threw them into the fireplace as if they were hot coals. "What would it take for you to stop looking at me with so much pity?" His voice cracked under the strain of the pain and insecurity he felt.

Jo grabbed the hand that once held the pills she offered. She placed two more there and folded his fingers over them. She held her hands over his, feeling him tremble. All the while she studied his face for the confirmation she needed.

Greg wouldn't look at her directly. The way she searched his face told him she knew. Maybe not exactly what, but she knew he was hiding something. He couldn't let her or his family see his humiliation.

"It doesn't change who you are or how we'll treat you." Her voice was a near whisper so that only the two of them could hear what she said.

"That's crap and you know it."

Blythe and Sarah had taken to the couch. They watched the interaction between Greg and Jo. The intensity amongst the couple was palpable, even thought they could barely hear the conversation. And yet they watched innocently thinking that the lovers had forgotten they were there.

"How long have you been clean?"

"A year and a half." He closed his eyes as not to have to look at her.

"I'm assuming opiates."

He finally broke down and looked into her eyes searching for the one thing that would tell him how she knew.

"You threw Midol away like it was on fire. When I put more in your hand, you panicked. And you're ashamed."

"I am not."

"You can't look me in the eyes for more than a few seconds."

He stared her down.

"Oh," she said unexpectedly looking away.

What had his face revealed that turned her away? It was just as he thought. The newly acquired knowledge repulsed her. "Like I said: it's crap." You've already changed your mind about me."

Jo shook her head. "Nothing's changed. We're all the same people we were twenty-four hours ago."

"The only thing that's changed is that I'll no longer offer you something stronger for the pain." She let go of his hand and got to her feet. "I'll make more hot water," she announced to the room in general.

Greg noted his relatives staring at him. He hung his head, not wanting to face their anxious looks.

"Greg, is there something you want to tell us?" Blythe approached her son cautiously.

"Sit back down. I don't need you hovering over me."

Blythe reclaimed her seat. "Greg, if you're having a problem, we can talk about it."

He snorted back a sardonic laugh.

"There has to be something you can take for the pain." Aunt Sarah was worried he'd suffered enough.

"He's built up a tolerance, Sarah," Blythe patted her sister-in-law's knee while keeping her eyes on her son.

Greg looked at her with shock. "Gawd, Wilson told you."

"James didn't tell me anything I didn't already know."

"So how long have you known I'm an addict?" The blue of his eyes turned very dark.

It took her a few moments to process the information.

"I suppose he told you about Mayfield, too." It was the second fact he never wanted his mother to find out about.

"What's Mayfield? Aunt Sarah asked innocently.

Jo returned with the hot water. "You don't have to say anything else, Greg."

"What do you mean?" Blythe looked to her with astonishment.

"We all have our demons. In a moment of weakness he told you a dark secret. Please don't use it against him." She sat down half way between the two parties.

"The drugs don't work anymore, that's all," Blythe couldn't decide whether she should defend her son or admonish him.

"Don't make excuses for me, Mom."

"For goodness sake, Greg, I'm not excusing your actions. You needed the medication for the pain."

"It started out that way. And then I hated what I had become, and I took a few more. Then I lost Stacey, and my life went down the toilet. So I took a few more. And every time I was annoyed, hurt, angry, tired or just plain fed up, I took a few more.

"Pretty soon I was popping them like breath mints and getting the same results - as breath mints.

"The pain continued to increase and the pills did nothing."

"What made you stop?" Blythe had seen enough television and news programs to know that drug addicts could just quit cold turkey.

Greg had turned off the conversation after his confession ended.

Joanne proceeded to pour everyone a cup of tea. "Does it really matter? He's clean. He isn't interested in using again, and he clearly doesn't want to discuss it further."

She was so matter of fact that it took all three of her guests by surprise. Aunt Sarah decided to pretend the discussion never happened. Blythe looked from her son to her hostess. Twenty minutes ago she was convinced Joanne would have made a good daughter-in-law. Now she wasn't so sure. And her own son-he seemed so spiteful and resentful.

How many secrets was he keeping from her? "What's Mayfield, Greg?"

He sighed, more out of exhaustion than frustration. "Let it go, Ma." He was too tired to fight anymore.

"I can't let it go." Blythe kept her distance and hardened her heart. "You tell me you're a drug addict, then mention a name thinking I know what it means. Obviously it has great importance to you."

He wiped his hand down his face. "Don't do this to me."

"I'm just trying to understand what you've been through."

"You'll never understand."

There was so much loathing in his voice, she needed to hold him, to soothe his emotional turmoil. It didn't matter if he was five or fifty. Blythe still needed to let him know she loved him and would do anything in her power to ease his suffering.

As she approached, Greg rested his head on his hand, unable to face her. It had been a bad idea to come. And now he was trapped.

"I know about Amber." There was a long silence. "James told me about the bus crash."

At the mention of her name, Greg forgot to breath. He was relieved to hear that she only knew about the accident. His body shuddered, forcing him to exhale.

"And I know about the other doctor who committed suicide."

He began to sob silently. Why did she have to bring THEM up?

"This is going to sound ridiculously crass and selfish, but I'm glad you survived. I feel sorry for the families of your colleagues, but I'd never get over losing you."

Greg thought about all the stupid stunts he pulled, how many times he had technically died, only to be revived by a miracle of modern medicine. Worst of all was the time he called his mother a few Thanksgivings ago just before he overdosed on oxycontin and whiskey. It would kill her to know how much of a loser he really was.

"Mayfield was the place I kicked the drug habit," he conceded. He could give her that as long as he didn't have to divulge anything else.

Jo, having taken refuge in the kitchen, wasn't satisfied. Mayfield rang a bell she couldn't place. Was it a city or town? It sounded very 'Andy Griffithy'. No, that was Mayberry. Wasn't Mayfield a boxer? Damn, that was Holyfield. It was driving her nuts.

She headed for the computer in her room. The only real way to place Mayfield was to Google it. Hundreds of links to Mayfield: the town, village, city and county popped up. She refined her search to add rehabilitation. The links for municipalities named Mayfield and having rehab facilities topped the list. None of those institutions were actually called Mayfield.

The advanced search of Mayfield Rehabilitation Facility Near New Jersey returned the top ten listings, all for Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital. A quick prevue of their specialties proved there was a drug addiction and detox program available. It boasted a six week session that had a 98% success rate with a small margin of patients falling back into old habits the first year after completion of the program.

Greg said it had been a year and a half. He was one of their successes. Thank god. She cleared her web browser and put her computer in sleep mode. Things had gotten quiet.

The smell of turkey permeated the air and she decided it was time to check on the bird. Jo dared to peek into the living room to see how things were progressing. Much to her surprise Greg had been left to himself.

He was still sitting in the same chair, leg up and head resting in his hand. Perhaps his aunt and mother were gathering themselves together in preparation for her family's arrival. Jo wondered if she should approach him.

"You don't have to stare at me from the corner of the room," he called out, his voice thick with emotion.

Jo headed his way. "If you want to take respite in my room for a while, you're welcomed to it. You can lay down if you need."

He reached his hand out to her to draw her closer. "No need. A cab's on its way."

She gave him a weak smile.

"Not so attractive anymore when you find out I'm a recovering addict, am I?"

"Stop belittling yourself. So you have a problem. Big deal. We all have shit we're dealing with on a daily basis.

"I'm leaving." He shook his head as if confirming his next sentence. " I can't love you."

There it was, right out of left field. He dumped her before things ever got started. "You're not being very fair."

"I'm only doing this out of fairness to you." His voice was devoid of emotion.

Jo felt he had turned off his personality. It was another mechanism for protecting himself. "How is it fair to me? Explain it, because I don't understand."

Greg hung his head in shame. "How can I love you when I hate myself so much? It just won't work."

"You are a hot mess!" She couldn't help but laugh at him.

He took offense. "Fuck you!"

"Stop being such a drama queen. Everybody has issues. You are NOT the only person in the world carrying the burdens of a life they're not happy with."

How could he convince her he was unworthy of her? That they could never work because he was flawed. It would be torture for both of them. The best way to survive for both of them was to stay away from each other.

"It should be my choice whether or not I want to be with you. You've already told me you are interested. Quit making my decisions for me."

"There are things about me - things so disturbing that I'm afraid if you found out, you'd never forgive me."

She got to her knees beside the chair and held both of his hands in hers. They looked into each other's face for a very long time. She had fallen for him. His vulnerability was endearing. And although he sabotaged himself at the expense of the relationship, he was nothing like her ex-husband, who blamed her for anything that went wrong.

"If you tell me the disturbing things yourself, then I won't have to wonder what unspoken surprises lie ahead to ambush us. Who knows, maybe it's not all as bad as you think."

"It's not as easy as it sounds. I've lied and subverted truths and motives for my actions in order to hide the reality of who I am."

"The world won't come crashing down if you admit the truth."

Greg threw his head back with laughter. "Not true. The last time it happened-"

"Don't stop just because it's a painful memory. If you don't talk about it, you allow it to take control and taint everything else. Trust me. Nothing you say will make me run screaming."

Whether it was her sincerity and his feelings for her or the challenge of shocking her, Greg found himself confessing. "I went crazy."

"Who doesn't every now and then?"

"That's not what I mean. The Vicodin toxicity had me hallucinating. I saw dead people. They talked me into doing things that led to hurting the people around me. At one point I was delusional and shouted out to everyone within earshot that I had a sexual encounter with my boss.

"As she was about to fire me, it clicked that it was all a lie. The whole time I had been eating Vicodin like candy. I no longer knew what was real. I committed myself to Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital."

"So far nothing there to freak me out." Jo ran her hand through his hair before kissing him.

"My voluntary commitment didn't stay that way. The State of New Jersey revoked my medical license. In order to get it back, I was forced to stay against my will until my psychiatrist was satisfied."

"Nobody wanted to see you go back to the drugs."

Greg smiled sardonically. "It had nothing to do with drugs. I'm screwed up. My misanthropic view of the world is apparently a mental illness."

The way he treated his psychological illness was more debilitating than his physical ailment. And he was embarrassed or ashamed of it. She understood his dilemma.

"And that's what you think is going to break me?"

He nodded, his eyes filled with unshed tears.

"Not hardly." She laughed with relief.

Someone sniffed back a funny nose. Until that point neither one of them had realized they had an audience. Their heads turned simultaneously. Blythe was in the doorway, a mix of emotions evident in her body language. Even more mortifying were the three figures in the kitchen speaking in hushed voices.

There was no rock to crawl under, no hole in the middle of the floor to swallow him up. Nothing but his own humiliation to shine a spotlight on him.

"I need to get out of here."

Jo watched helplessly as he pushed away in an effort to scramble to his feet and get of there as quickly as possible.

It wasn't until he was at the threshold of the front door that Jo's father stopped him. Greg was unseeing of the wake of emotional mayhem behind him.

"Greg, don't leave. Your mother needs you."

He turned, not looking at the man, only seeing the quivering wreck that was his mother. He looked at her, really seeing how knowing who he was destroyed her. Another Thanksgiving ruined by his actions.

"I'm toxic," he said, barely audible. "I have to-" Greg finally looked into the man's face. "What are you doing here?" He shook his head to rid himself of the ghost before him.

"I'm Joanne's father. We used to be neighbors. Do you remember me?"

"No. This isn't happening." Greg backed away from him nearly tripping over his own feet. If there was ever a good time for Southern California to get hit by an earthquake that decimated him, now would be the time.

"Greg, are you okay? You don't look so good."

He let the cane fall as his hands went to his head. Greg let out a cry filled with anguished. He felt like the fabric of his being was disintegrating.

When he opened his eyes, Jo was holding him, keeping him upright. Greg squirmed out of her arms, then pushed her away. "This is so wrong."

The wild look in his eyes scared her. This wasn't about being embarrassed or ashamed. It was something completely different. The closest thing she could equate it to was a psychotic break.

He looked over his shoulder for an escape route. Damn his body for betraying him.

"Greg, talk to me!" There was a sense of urgency, like he might try to head down the hill and get himself killed that made Jo grab him.

Before he could even think to respond, the taxi pulled up. He backed away from her, taking a quick look at the cab, then looking back at her. She had been nothing but patient and honest with him. He at least owed her an explanation.

Greg covered half the distance to the waiting car before he could say anything. When he turned back, his tears were flowing freely.

"You're my sister!"


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

He wasn't aware of anything but the swaying of his body as the cab wound its way down the hill. Greg didn't know what feelings were fighting for control and winning. He was too numb. His brain kept screaming out the horrors that now plagued him. How could his mother pretend there was nothing immoral or unethical about it?

His mind echoed his screams so loudly he thought he might have actually vocalized them. Greg put his hand to his mouth only to realize he was shaking beyond his control. Assembling his thoughts into a coherent plan of action was a priority, but his head and his heart were conflicted with what would be the right course of action.

The cab pulled up to the front doors of the hotel. Greg leaned over the seat, spied the fare and tossed twice as much as was needed. He was opening the door before the hotel doorman could assist him. With one clear thought in his head, Greg headed straight to the elevator.

"Mr. House!" A female voice hailed him from the front desk.

He chose to ignore her.

She rushed out from behind the counter, several pink papers in her hand. "You have messages."

The elevator doors opened just as she handed him the slips. Greg nodded curtly as he took them. He failed to acknowledge her any further as he stepped forward and the doors closed.

The papers weighted heavily in his hand. He knew what they were, who they were from. Of course he had turned off his cell phone at some point after getting into the taxi. He just couldn't remember if it was before it started ringing or because it was ringing. Facing the situation wasn't an option.

The elevator opened, spilling him into the hallway. His door refused to open until he realized the card key was upside down. Once opened, he practically fell through the door. The leg pain was starting to rear its ugly head over the turmoil of the incestuous tryst.

Greg let himself collapse over the bed, face planted into the pillow. The urge to scream overrode his humility. It was easy. He let his voice carry out on the exhale. A physical exhaustion ensued as if he had clenched every muscled for an extended period of time and was now releasing the pressure build up. This caused his leg to spasm more. And with that he allowed himself to vocally express the pain.

After laying there wallowing, he wished for numbness - total and complete oblivion. But there was no Vicodin. Nothing to mix with the libations in the mini bar to get him to the mental place he needed to be. If he were in a hospital he'd ask to be put in a chemically induced coma indefinitely.

That was the clincher; the thought above all others that made him realize he couldn't pretend it didn't happen by medicating himself into oblivion. He'd have to deal with reality eventually. But not now.

Now he would distract himself with a hot bath and a few shots of whiskey. Then he'd pack, check the internet for the best chance of leaving town, then check out and disappear for a while.

Blythe House sat in the wing back chair her son had vacated a short while earlier. She was stunned, unable to wrap her head around the particulars of the event. Yes, she understood his embarrassment and the shame of having his deepest, darkest secret overheard; but what came next was ludicrous.

Greg's reaction was out of proportion to the magnitude of the confession. She could only wonder if he had taken something he shouldn't have. She expected grumpiness when he arrived in pain, but this was a moodiness - a mood swing - she had not experienced from him before. She was at a loss to help him.

Joanne sat with her parents at the kitchen table. Nothing made sense anymore. Greg's confession had endeared him further to her. He trusted her enough, cared enough, to share the worst part of his past with her. And then he dropped the bomb.

What he said weighed heavily in her chest. Jo was confused first. Slowly it began to dawn on her. The only way they could be related would mean…uh, she didn't want to think about it.

Rationally Jo wanted to believe Greg was having a pain-induced delusion. The only other choice was a psychotic break. Perhaps he told her about his commitment because he felt himself slipping away.

'_You're my sister!'_

She could hear him scream it over and over. Once Greg disappeared into the cab, she could only look to her father to see if he understood what had just happened. His face showed shock. But that wasn't the only emotion. Perhaps it was fear, concern, embarrassment or a combination of all three.

That disturbed her almost as much as Greg's words. Why had her father stayed silent as he watched the cab go?

His brief consolation with Blythe was expected. As a member of the clergy, he often provided counseling to people in distress. This was really no different. She let it go.

Yet as Greg's shouting died in her ears, the look in his eyes and his body language intensified. Jo was no longer sure the look was meant for her. Dad had been standing just a few feet away. His reaction was not usual. Did he know Greg? Did Greg know something she didn't?

"Daddy, can I talk to you in private out on the deck?"

Her interruption was urgent amidst the contemplative silence of the dining room. Jo's father nodded, heading for the patio door, carrying his drink with him. She followed, not giving her mother any indication of what they would talk about. Just before she stepped out on the deck, she turned back to see her mom looking lost in thought.

"Dad…" Jo was hesitant because he as purposefully avoiding eye contact with her. He had always been open and honest. At least that's what she thought until now. "Dad," she called him a second time and he turned to face her.

"Joanne, I know you're upset. Greg is a very conflicted man. He has many psychological problems that we can't even begin to understand."

"I think I understand a little more than you give me credit for."

Shame. The look on her father's face when Greg ran away was shame. He was giving her the look now.

"This is bad," she murmured gravely.

"It was a long time ago. I was…there was…" He turned his body away from her and leaned over the railing, his face in his hands. "No one was ever supposed to find out."

"Then I take it Mom still doesn't know."

"Blythe and I never spoke of it, either."

Joanne joined her father at the rail. "How did Greg find out?"

"He as always a wise-ass kid. Even though he had no proof, he would taunt his father with the information. John House was a formidable man. Both Blythe and I continued to deny the affair ever happened. Yet John was unsure. Greg's continued insistence at the most inopportune times made for a rough relationship between them."

"And you did nothing." She said it like he was responsible for all of Greg's troubles.

"What could I have done? Two marriages would have been destroyed. No one would have been happy. At least this way we all got to keep what we had."

"At whose expense? Greg has been carrying this knowledge around for since god knows how long. You don't think it hasn't shaped a part of who he is? Or the fact that his own biological father wasn't aware of his existence?"

His head turned quickly. "I was very aware. It was difficult for me to watch my flesh and blood be disciplined by another man. And when they moved away and took my son from the periphery of my life, I turned to God for guidance.

"Your mother just figured I had a mid-life crisis."

"Well I'm kind of having my own mid-life crisis right now because of it."

He put his arm around his daughter. "I'm sorry you got caught in the middle of it all."

"I'm in deep," she said, shrugging away. "Greg and I have had sexual relations."

Once she spoke the truth of what her father had been hiding, a great anxiety began to build in her abdomen. She now understood Greg's repulsion and anger. Fortunately, she had the coping skills needed to deal with it more rationally.

"The most confusing of this is that Blythe House knew we were siblings and she, with the help of Greg's aunt, played match maker. They condoned this incestuous relationship. It's no wonder Greg is devastated."

Jo hugged herself partially because she was cold, mostly because she was the only one she could trust right now.

The reverend harrumphed, much like Greg had a habit of doing. "People make mistakes."

"There are mistakes, and there are abominations."

"You're overreacting." He tried to approach her and offer a comforting embrace.

"I disagree." Jo walked away trying to make sense of her father's betrayal and nonchalance. How could he be so calm? What she and Greg had partaken in was a mortal sin.

"I'm going out for a while," she announced to her mother as she snagged her keys off the hook on the wall.


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28

Hollywood and Highland was supposed to be a happening shopping center in the heart of downtown Hollywood. For Greg, the only thing it had going for it was the closest Metro station. Aside from the Hollywood Walk of Fame set in terrazzo, it was a giant tourist trap. And it had begun to drizzle. People were running for cover as if it were acid rain - a very dangerous thing to do as terrazzo became like an ice rink when wet. His cane slipped and his shoes slid as he made his way to the elevator.

People crowded in, allowing Greg and his suitcase just enough room. His first inhalation staggered him. Urine and vomit permeated the air with the pungent aroma of sweat. Already nauseated by his situation, the elevator just compounded his bad mood.

He bought his one-way fare and took the next elevator to the lower platform. It was more of the same. He couldn't wait to get on the train. But once the transport pulled up and the doors opened, he had to wade through the crowd of people rushing to get off. Unfortunately, those getting on were forced to ride standing.

"Doesn't anyone stay home and eat on holidays," he mumbled while staring at the young Emo who watched him struggle to stay upright as the train lurched forward.

"Dude, you want a seat?" The Emo removed himself, giving House a chance to stop flopping around.

Greg nodded, then dropped himself into the seat. The red line path was laid out on a line grid near the doorway. He needed to get off at Union Station. That was at least seven stops away. He had a few minutes to try to relax, for as much as one could on a manic subway line.

Joanne pulled up to valet parking at the Beverly Hills Hotel. She wasn't sure she wanted to see Greg. She just needed to know he was there and okay. But the front desk informed her that the person in question had just checked out.

"Did he say where he was going?" She tried to sound casual, only to realize via the look on the desk clerk's face that she hadn't succeeded.

"Mr. House did appear agitated. We were surprised to have him check out early. We hope everything was satisfactory."

"He received some bad news today. I suspect he caught an earlier flight home." It was an easy excuse. Unfortunately she didn't believe the travel arrangements were accurate. Where could he have gone on such short notice?

Jo's cell phone vibrated in her pocket. She opened it up, "Hello? No. He checked out. Probably on his way back to New Jersey." She hung up, not particularly happy to have missed him.

The problem was she emotionally missed him. They were having a good time…getting to know each other. And now that she had a sibling, there was so much more she needed to talk to him about. He was the only person she felt she could trust.

James Wilson excused himself for the third time from Lisa Cuddy's Thanksgiving dinner table. He persisted on maintaining he was receiving calls on a patient who was critical. He didn't want to worry his hostess or get the family complaining that House was ruining yet another holiday. James' appetite had all but disappeared with the first call. The subsequent call to House's cell and the fact that it went directly to voicemail indicated House needed to think things over; whatever those things were.

The one situation he did find disturbing was that his best friend had run from the scene in great distress and physical pain. He knew House had a self-destructive nature and Mrs. House was genuinely concerned for her son's well-being. Plain and simple: James was afraid his friend might go off the deep end.

This was another call from Blythe House. Hopefully it was good news.

"I hope this is good news." There was no 'hello' or any other greeting. It was pointless.

Moments later he returned to the table. He still had no appetite and only managed to move his food around his plate with his fork.

"Everything okay?" Lisa couldn't keep her curiosity in check.

"The situation has stabilized. We'll see what tomorrow brings."

Lisa raised an eyebrow questioningly. James knew she was suspicious and his attempst to hide the true nature of his interruptions were lackluster. Only House could come up with good code-speak. When he was trying to cover for his friend, James' brain just never seemed to work right.

The rest of dinner was lost in thought. He couldn't help but wonder where and what House was doing. Even when Cuddy cleared the table sending James and the rest of her guests off to the living room for after dinner drinks, he couldn't help but worry.

Cuddy asked him to join her in the kitchen while she washed dishes.

"What's going on?" She kept her voice low and neutral.

"Nothing." James picked up the dish towel and started drying.

"I know you better than that. This isn't about a patient."

"Of course it is." He tried to sound convincing.

"Baloney." She handed him another dish.

"Don't worry, I'll be okay."

"Uh huh." Lisa was skeptical . She looked at him trying to read his reactions. "Maybe it's not you I'm so worried about."

"Okay, now you're just playing games with me."

The stress was starting to wear on him. "Look, Lisa, I appreciate your concern. You're my boss and my friend. Tonight I need you to be my friend."


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29

Greg was sitting in his cabin on the Amtrak train heading east; working on his third scotch. His leg ached like it hadn't since before he kicked Vicodin. The liquor and the anti-inflammatory barely took the edge off. He rubbed at his thigh, angry with himself for being a cripple, physically and emotionally. The pathetic attempt at being pleasantly human and trying to enjoy life backfired. Karma bit him in the ass and was now leaving him to bleed out slowly.

If there ever was a time he felt he really deserved to be locked in a padded room, it was now. House wanted to bang his head against the wall for a little bit or pound his fists into something - just enough to distract himself from the leg pain and the emotional turmoil he felt. But he didn't dare do any of that on the train. Behavior like that could get him labeled as a terrorist; the main reason he chose the train over a plane.

No matter how long or how much he felt he could avoid the outside world, he needed one thing: to speak to his best friend. Wilson would commiserate with him on this one. He'd understand what House needed to hear from him to make this bearable. With that in mind, he turned on his cell phone.

Once the opening notes of the re-animation of the phone finished, several tones emitted from the device alerting him to voice mail and text messages.

"God, everybody and their brother is hunting me down!"

House scanned through the missed calls noting Wilson had tried to reach him. That meant he knew something was up. But just what they had told Wilson remained a mystery. He didn't dare listen to his messages. No doubt Jo's voice would be pleading to hear from him. He couldn't listen. Not now, anyway.

So he had another drink. Maybe he should call Nolan and set something up on his return. Maybe later. It was a holiday for most people. Let them eat their dried bird. Maybe he'd call Wilson later. And then he remember the time difference. Three hours later on the East Coast. They were probably just finishing up dinner. Another hour would be safer.

Another scotch later and he was still tortured about finding out his lover was his sister.

Joanne walked backed into her house after spending an hour staring out at all of the overlook points she and Greg had shared some time at. It was crazy to think he'd stop back at one of these spots to ponder the situation. Worse yet, she could imagine him throwing himself over the precipice. Mostly because she felt like doing it herself. Surely Greg could find a million reasons not to do it. She, on the other hand, didn't have much hope.

Things were not adding up. Her father was his biological father. She and Greg had sex. And neither Blythe nor her father seemed the least bit upset by it. How could that be?

Jo walked in and went straight to her room. From the closet she pulled out her overnight case and began tossing a few days' worth of clothes into it.

"JoJo, where are you going?" Her mother walked in and sat next to her case on the bed.

"I have to leave for a while. You and dad stay here. Take my room. Let Blythe and Sarah stay. I just need some time alone."

Her mom reached out to her as Jo's hands dropped clothes into the suitcase. "You don't have to leave. Your father and I have something to tell you."

"You know then. He told you."

"Yes dear. He said you had doubts about us."

"Doubts?"

"Let's go into the living room and talk."

"No mom, airing our dirty laundry in front of guests is inappropriate. Why don't you just tell me what you think I need to know?." The situation was getting weirder by the moment.

"I guess it's best if you hear it from me, then."

Jo moved the case and sat next to her mother. She held her hand, encouraging her to speak.

"Your father and I were unable to conceive. He turned to the church in his time of crisis. I turned to God in a different way. I prayed for a child to come. Days turned to weeks, months to years. Finally someone suggested adoption. We both thought of it, but never moved forward as American adoption agencies were not as they are now. We wanted a child - a baby. White, American and preferably a newborn. That was a rarity at the time.

"Finding you was a miracle."

"Finding me?" What does that mean? You went dumpster diving? Knocking on doors looking for abandoned babies? Checked garbage cans?"

"The Lord answered my prayers. You were left at the church rectory, outside on the doorstep. We took you in and you've been our daughter ever since."

"Legally?" It sounded like a crock of bull. There was no quick answer.

"Mom, you didn't steel me, did you?" What in the hell was this nightmare? Who in the hell were these people? No wonder Greg was so fucked up. Half-truths, un-lies and cover ups were everywhere she turned.

"I've got to go." She grabbed the suitcase, zipped it shut and headed out. The only solace she could glean from this was that she was in no way related to Greg!


	30. Chapter 30

Chapter Thirty

In his drunken stupor, Greg pulled out his cell phone and dialed Wilson.

"James-"

"I know who I called," he started out belligerently.

"House," Wilson looked across the room at Cuddy and family, decidedly lowering his voice. "Are you alright? Where are you?"

Greg harrumphed. "No, I'm not alright. And..." he looked out the window to see if he could figure out where the train was now, "I have no idea where I am."

"Are you safe?" Wilson's free hand was working at the back of his neck.

"Yesh-sss."

"You're drunk." James was disappointed. If he was, there was no way to have a coherent conversation with him.

"Yeahuh."

This was bad. House drunk, practically speechless, and sounding very depressed was not a good sign. "Are you sure you're somewhere safe. You're not driving, or riding a motorcycle, standing in traffic...about to jump from the H in the Hollywood Sign?"

"Now why didn't I think of that," Greg snorted.

"You aren't thinking of doing anything-"

"I'm on my way home. Be there in a few days."

"How are you getting here?"

"Train."

"Why a train? If you're in pain, a flight would have been faster."

"Can stretch out on train. Move around."

Wilson leaned against the counter in Cuddy's kitchen. "House, what happened?"

"I've done something-" he couldn't finish. It was unspeakable. Despicable. Undoable.

"Whatever it is, it can't be as bad as you think." James spoke before thinking. He could imagine horrible things that he wouldn't put past Greg. So far his mother hadn't mentioned him being wanted by the law, so it didn't sound like a legal dilemma.

"Her father is the Reverend."

James misheard him, thinking he just confessed to having an affair with a cleric's daughter.

"I don't want to think about it. Not right now."

"Greg," James rarely used his first name, "can I at least call your mother and tell her you're safe?"

"I wouldn't expect anything less."

Before Wilson could say anything else, House dropped the phone. All that could be heard was snoring.

"Everything okay?" Cuddy had been standing in the doorway listening to the one-sided conversation.

Wilson blushed. "Not sure."

"So there's no dying patient? It's been House all evening?" There was an undertone of anger in Lisa's voice, but she tried hard not to let her emotions affect her for the fact that Wilson was silently suffering.

"He's..."

"House. So what has his perverse pleasure of screwing things up brought this holiday? Did he set another turkey on fire?"

James shook his head. "I think it's a lot more serious than that. His mom said he met a woman. They were getting on very well, which we all know is an anomaly. Then he met her fath-Oh shit!" Wilson lost all composure. He put his hand over his mouth and started pacing the room.

"What? He met her father?" Cuddy was quite concerned that House and Wilson would both be traumatized by that bit of knowledge. "It's not like the man has any power over House."

"I thought he said her father was a reverend."

"It's not a crime to be with the daughter of a religious person. Well, House being an atheist and all, maybe it is."

"He said her father was the reverend. THE reverend." Wilson's eyes were wide as saucers.

"The reverend. As it the Reverend Jesse Jackson? The Reverend Al Sharpton. The Reverend Orel Roberts, Jr.? I'm lost." Cuddy figured House had to be in trouble because he embarrassed himself in front of someone famous, perhaps even notorious.

"Can we go somewhere private?" He looked toward the family room. "Somewhere where no one will hear us?"

"Why, you have a national secret you're going to spill?" Lisa thought he was acting rather strangely. And now that he had some dirt on House's vacation happenings, she couldn't help but be a little intrigued by what he might say.

"If I tell you this, you have to swear to me you'll never let House know I told you." He saw the doubt in her eyes. "Swear to me."

"Alright, alright," Cuddy grinned evilly. Finally, she was going to have something to hold over House's head whenever he pissed her off.

They walked out the back into the laundry room. "Tell me," she said forcefully as she closed the door.

"Where to start...well, you know House has never gotten along with his father."

"Yes," Lisa nodded.

"But you don't know why, exactly."

"Who does?"

"I do. And what started off most of the ill feelings is that John House was not Greg's biological father."

Cuddy's mouth was opened in a sort of surprised "oh".

"House thinks he knows who his biological father is, based on some birthmark he and the man share in common."

"That sounds reasonable."

"At twelve he figured it out. And the whole timeline around his conception."

"Figures," she snorted.

"The guy was a family friend. House's aunt and mother are visiting with the daughter of a family friend. House found out today that he has been intimate with his biological sister."

Cuddy let out a shriek of dismay that was abruptly stopped by James cupping his hand over her mouth.

"Oh my God! Is he…what…"

"He's a wreck. He's on a train, somewhere. Drunk out of his mind. He sounds really depressed," Wilson confessed.

"Is everything okay in there," Cuddy's mom knocked on the door.

"Um, yeah. I just saw a mouse run in here. James is trying to capture it." Lisa shouted through the door.

"If you needed alone time, you should have just told us," Mom shouted back.

Arlene Cuddy was a pistol, but Lisa decided to let her think whatever she was going to think. The latest juicy news on her hospital's top asset was worthy of any amount of familial embarrassment.

"What are you going to do," she asked in a hushed tone in case her mother was eavesdropping.

"What can I do?"


End file.
